Andrew Wareham

The War to End All Wars

- Book Four -

THE DEATH OF HOPE

Chapter One

“Mr Orpington! A pleasure to see you. When were you released from hospital?”

“Four weeks ago, sir.”

The young second lieutenant spoke with a slight slur, his left upper lip thick with scar tissue that extended across his cheek, under the eye and round to the ear. His whole face was slightly lopsided, the scarring tugging at his right cheek and lips.

“I had feared that you might never return to active service, Orpington.”

“I was lucky, sir. Three in the belly that missed liver and kidneys and everything important. They hurt, nothing more. The one across the face took longest to heal, sir. Only just back to chewing solid food. They wanted me to go back to hospital for another operation, or two or three, to reduce the scar tissue. I’ve had enough of hospitals! I was passed fit for service three days ago and was permitted to join your 8th Battalion, sir. Might be an advantage of the scar, sir, giving me a bit of leeway, you might say, the base-wallahs a bit nervous of the warrior returning to battle. Seems to be the way the bloody fools think in England, sir! I know I am an extra – but only for a week or two, I expect!”

Richard grimaced. They had lost no officers in the three days they had been in the line. He was surprised, had expected some of the youngest to be rash in exposing themselves above the parapet. They were due to go raiding that evening and would repeat over other days; they would certainly lose men.

“You are very welcome, Orpington. I am flattered and very pleased that you asked to join me. We made a good team together in the 3rd Battalion. For the while, until you join a company, which, as you say, is inevitable, I think the best thing is for you to be my doggie, as we used to call it in the Navy. The Adjutant is worked off his feet and the Major is busy as hell – I can make damned good use of a man with your experience and knowledge running chores for me, thinking as well as passing messages. Introduce yourself to Major Vokes and arrange your dugout with him – I think Captain Hawkeswill has a spare bunk in his and it’s conveniently close to me.”

Orpington tried to smile, achieved an unattractive grimace and marched off to find the Major, exchanging salutes with Sergeant Major O’Grady as he left.

“Sure and I never expected to see that young man back again, sir. A good young officer and will be welcome, I cannot doubt.”

“Badly scarred up, ‘Major. Pity for a youngster of his age – he cannot be twenty yet. Not going to be easy smiling at the girls.”

“That I don’t know, sir. Any lass who turns her back on him for an honourable wound, well, he will be better off without her.”

“Easy enough for us old men to say, ‘Major. For a youngster it’s likely to be hard, nerving himself to be seen in society.”

“So say the greybeards, sir.”

Richard Baker was reminded that he was not yet twenty-one, by a matter of days, and was colonel of his battalion. Not the youngest in the BEF, he had been told – there were two other twenty year olds with battalions of their own in the Trenches.

“Best he should be made up, do you agree, ‘Major?”

“He has the experience in the line, sir, and stood his ground at Neuve Chapelle. He will make the grade, sir. Lieutenant immediately, captain in a month or two. Higher than that? Who knows, sir?”

The sergeant major evidently saw no great military genius in the boy. Richard would not venture to disagree – O’Grady was soldiering before he went to school.

“I’ll speak to the Brigadier now.”

The telephone system cooperated and Richard had a clear line, could hear all that Brigadier Braithwaite had to say. At least a half of calls had to be abandoned because of the buzzing and crackling that drowned their voices.

“Young Orpington is back from hospital, sir, and asked to come over to us in 8th Battalion. He’s still only a second lieutenant. Permission to raise him, sir?”

“By all means, Baker. Good lad, that one. Well done of him to come back – with his wounds he could have looked for a depot posting in England. Easy to argue that he had done his share. Now, these raids tonight… Are you sure you must go out with them?”

“The only way to know what’s facing us is to get a look at them, sir. I need to get across there once at least. Add to that – it’s our first venture into action. I want the boys to know that they are to follow me. Like you, I am to lead my battalion. I am not to be nothing more than the figure in the background who gives out the orders. If the time comes that we have to stand firm against an advance, then they need to know that I will be there at their front, as you were last autumn.”

Braithwaite was flattered, had to agree that he had been well to the front in his day.

“Don’t like it, Baker! No choice but agree to your actions. Don’t leave me having to write a letter to your little Primrose, young man!”

“Last thing I might wish, sir! I much hope that I shall be able to write my own letters, sir… Not easy, is it? Writing home and trying to say that all is well and she must not worry and knowing that she is an intelligent girl and well capable of reading all that is unsaid. The more I reassure her that nothing can go wrong, the greater her worries must become!”

“Just so, Baker! I sat down for an hour with pen and paper last night, trying to write home. Well, not a try as such, I finished a letter and sent it off. Wasn’t happy with it, didn’t say enough and couldn’t say too much. Not so hard for you young men – I’m no spring chicken and taking a wife at my age is no small matter… Glad I did though. Fine lady, Mrs Brigadier! Thing is, Baker, poor gel’s been widowed once already – not that her first was much of a loss! Knew him – she was pushed by her parents into marrying at sixteen, because he had money. Best thing that could have happened to her when he died five years later. Put all his cash, everything he had got, into a gold mine, the damned fool! Stuck a twelve-bore shotgun in his mouth – must have been messy – when the mine failed, the vein or seam or whatever they call it came to a sudden end and the shares fell to a penny from five pounds the week before. Funny thing was, six months later they dropped another shaft or somesuch a couple of hundred feet lower and there it was again, richer than ever. When probate came through the shares were higher than before. My clever lady sold out at their peak!”

Richard was amazed, as he must be, wondering quite why he should be told such detail of the lady’s finances and history.

“Back in ’05, that was, Baker. Stayed single for damned near ten years and then decided to marry me, of all people! Known her for years, of course, her family lived close to mine. Always admired her, from a distance, second son and all that, no way for me to marry. Best thing ever happened to me – there I was suddenly in the market for a wife when my brother died and she snapped me up just like that. That’s why I want to make sure she ain’t worried by the letters I send back. Tell her everything’s fine and dandy, she’s too sensible to believe that! Write the truth, that the Trenches are a bloodbath, and she’ll be thinking I might be caught up in the slaughterhouse. Not easy!”

“Same here, sir. You know how clever my Primrose is – far more so than me! She will read all I have to say and understand a damned sight more than I want her to, whatever I do. Still, I sent one off to her yesterday. Ought to be well. Is there any progress on extra Vickers for the battalion, sir?”

“None! Bloody fools are considering machine gun regiments, so they tell me. To bolster up the line where needed and provide backing to advances. Plans are for as many as eighty guns to be rushed into action and provide a concentration of firepower to stop any onslaught. An advance will be across no-man’s-land in ten minutes at most – how are they going to march a regiment into place in that time? They argue that no advance takes place without a preliminary softening up by the artillery, so they will have hours to place the guns – marching them up into a massive bombardment!”

It sounded more than normally foolish, even for the staff.

“Apparently French is in favour of the scheme. He believes that the massed machine guns will be able to cut down any attack and leave a gap for the cavalry to exploit. He has laid down that there is to be a brigade of cavalry waiting to the rear of the machine gun regiments whenever they are deployed. Smith-Dorrien is arguing against him and Haig and his pals in the newspapers in London are stabbing both men in the back, as normal. Complete bloody shambles, Baker!”

Richard was not at all surprised. The high command had been distinguished solely by its incompetence in the first year of the war. That it should be carrying on in the same vein was only to be expected.

“Any prospect of French actually getting up to the front, seeing the reality of this war, sir?”

“None! He prefers to take the long view – no sense to confusing himself by seeing the fighting ground close up. Haig is the same, of course. He got too close to the machine guns at Le Cateau and didn’t like it at all! You won’t see him within ten miles of the front line again!”

“We need only fighting soldiers up here, in any case, sir. No place for the staff!”

Braithwaite agreed, ended the call by telling Richard to take no unnecessary risks that night.

“Pointless, saying that to you, of all men, Baker! Try not to kill yourself!”

There was no gain to protesting, to saying that he would do no more than the situation demanded of him – the Old Man was convinced that he loved nothing more than the smell of German blood and would take any risk to spill more of it.

“All in hand, Paisley?”

His batman seemed slightly offended by the question – everything was always ready.

“Yes, sir. Your trench knife is sharp; iron club with its handle rebound; revolver cleaned and loaded with six. Got six of them new Mills bombs for meself, sir, and put a sharp on me own bayonet, what I thinks is better than that old trench knife. Got me own pair of wire cutters besides, what were going spare when we happened to have a few minutes at Calais, sir.”

Richard remembered they had been in company with a detachment of Engineers for a while, waiting for their transport.

“What else did they lose, Paisley?”

“I would not be knowing that, not for sure, sir. I did notice the ‘Major to be talking to others of his ilk – Papist Sinn Feiners, without a doubt – and to be passing four bottles of the good Scotch across. What they put in his direction, I would not know, but he is not one to be getting the worst of any bargain, that is for sure!”

A good Orangeman, Paisley, which did not stop him from sitting and smoking and talking with O’Grady whenever they had a few minutes free. Things might be different when the war was over; for the while they were easy friends.

“I gather you are coming with me tonight, Paisley.”

“Where else should I be, sir? With respect, sir, I was sticking a bayonet in wogs and them Boers when you was still in baby frocks, sir. I maybe ain’t so very nimble as I was, sir, but for running a few yards and hopping in and out of a trench, sir, I can still be doing that. In any case, sir, terrible tedious it can be, sitting about in a dugout and polishing boots and such – I need a little of what they might call light relief, sir.”

“Who am I to argue, Paisley? Which raiding party am I best to go with?”

The colonel’s batman was a privileged soldier – not merely a servant. He was expected to have opinions and to make them known to the colonel and him alone. The ordinary rules did not apply to this one of all the men in the battalion. In return, he would never break a confidence, would keep his mouth tightly closed in the company of all others, careful even in anything he said to O’Grady. Normally, his advice would be worth listening to.

“Mr Draper might benefit from having his hand held, sir. Been talking bold and undaunted all morning, sir. Bold Brennan on the Moor is as nothing to that one, sir.”

“Heard one or two of the lads singing that, Paisley.”

“Fine old song, sir. Very popular among the lads from the south of the land, sir, down around Cork, for some reason.”

More than a third of the battalion was made up of Irish volunteers, as was the case for the whole of the Army.

“Trying to talk himself into it, do you think, Paisley?”

“I am not to be commenting on any officer, sir. Not my place, sir. That said, you might feel well-advised to be treading on his heels and keeping him pointed in the right direction, sir.”

“Windy, not just nervous, you would say?”

“Don’t like the feel of him, that’s for sure, sir. What was he before he came across to us, sir?”

Most of the captains had transferred to the new battalion on promotion. Two, to Richard’s knowledge, had taken postings in their existing rank to get out of garrison troops, one from Ireland, the other from Gibraltar; they could have stayed far distant from the Trenches for the whole of the war, had chosen to go into danger. He could not remember offhand where Draper had been, walked the few yards to the adjutant’s dugout.

“Hawkeswill, what was Draper before he joined us?”

“Captain in the Hampshires. His people permitted him to transfer across to us because of our need for some experienced officers in the rank. To an extent, sir, it was a favour to you, bearing in mind the respect you are held in. His battalion was on its way to Gallipoli. I have an application from him to move again, back to the Hampshires, the 5th Battalion who are bound for India. Says that he would prefer to return to his original regiment having lent us the benefit of his experience.”

Hawkeswill’s voice was dry, in the extreme.

Richard noted that Draper had avoided Gallipoli and was now endeavouring to remove himself from the Western Front.

“My word. A much-travelled gentleman. Forward the request to Brigade with no comment… Not until tomorrow, thinking on it – I may have something to say after tonight.”

“Yes, sir. What do I do with this new officer, Orpington, sir?”

“Put him on our roll. We will need replacement officers sooner or later and he is competent. He is made full lieutenant, by the way. Issue one of the spare rifles and pouches to him.”

There was a rack of eight rifles on the back wall, taken from the wounded and three dead the battalion had lost in its first days. The clumsy and the careless had shown their heads and had suffered; they had lost nobody in the previous twenty-four hours, the lesson having been driven home to the remainder of the men.

“There is a shortage of firewood and of coal, sir. We have had sacks of coke sent up instead.”

Richard gathered from Hawkeswill’s expression that there was a problem.

“Coke gives off gas, sir, when it is burnt. Eight men in a dugout, sleeping with the door closed and the cracks stuffed with rag to prevent the cold air getting in, could easily all die from the poisoning if they kept a fire in all night.”

“Forbid coke fires in the dugouts. Tea fires to be outdoors. What’s the chance of extra blankets?”

“Thousands of them in the QM stores at Calais, sir. They won’t release them, keeping a stock against urgent need, sir.”

“Impossible to run a raid on the stores. Need more than a bottle of Scotch as well… What would it cost to get two thousand issued to us?”

“That would have to be authorised at high level, sir. An ordinary sergeant couldn’t do it. It would need cash in an officer’s pocket. Gold sovereigns, at that. At least a hundred, sir, at a guess. Big money, according to the whispers. I don’t know who could do it – never been involved.”

Richard nodded and returned to his own little den where he called for O’Grady and outlined the problem.

“And are you having a hundred or more of gold sovereigns about ye, sir?”

“Yes. My father pressed them upon me, one of the last things he did before we parted in London. He said he knew nothing of soldiering and the Army and less of France; he did know human beings, he said, and was prepared to bet that a purse of gold coins would come in handy, one way or another.”

“What’s the time now, sir?”

“Ten thirty.”

“Time for me to make my way to Brigade and back again, sir, with an hour or two to spare before we must be busy tonight, being as I shall be at your shoulder, naturally enough. I have an acquaintance there who can achieve a deal of things, when spoken to face to face. If it is possible, he will know. If not, well I shall not argue with him. It is the sort of thing that if he cannot do, most likely none at all can.”

Richard nodded, not entirely happily. Offering Scotch for favours was just the Army way of doing things. Paying out cash smacked of criminality… Winter was coming in and the men must be kept warm, whatever the price must be.

O’Grady returned before dinner, dropped off by the wagons bringing the food up from the cookhouses. The quality had been maintained over the few days since they had arrived; the food was still lukewarm, having to travel for an hour to reach the men, but it was far better than the unending diet of mutton stew that had been the previous staple.

“Looking at something they call ‘insulated pots’, they are, sir, in the hope of keeping the kai hot. A change to eat actual slices of beef, sir!”

“And potatoes and greens, ‘Major. The medical orderlies tell me they are seeing far less of dysentery than they were previously.”

“Damned good thing too, sir! Drains a man’s strength, that does, so that a trifling wound can kill him. At least they are getting one thing right – only taken a year of war to put the cookhouses in order, sir!”

That was unanswerable.

“Ten more years and they might have discovered how to fight the war as well. Anything regarding the blankets?”

“Ten sovereigns in my fellow’s hand, sir – that’s his squeeze and less than it might have been for friendship, you might say. He knows a major, no less, who is strapped for cash and would sell every warehouse in Calais for fifty yellow-boys in hand. Foolish man playing cards, so he says, and up to his neck in debt. The most of it can be delayed, payment next year when he has more cash in his private account. Less than a hundred he owes to a gentleman who is no gentleman at all and will not wait another week for payment.”

Richard did not wholly understand.

“The man he owes to is some sort of gang leader, sir. It seems that the French have some sort of underworld, so they call it, and the big bosses able to have any man killed off at a snap of their fingers. I am told it is the same in New York, though I have never been there to know. Whatever, sir, should our major not pay up within a very few days he is more than likely to be found with his throat cut.”

“But they would never get their money then!”

“Honour, they call it, sir. No man cheats them of their due and lives.”

“Nasty buggers, if you ask me, ‘Major. I can see that he wants his cash in a hurry. I have it to hand.”

“I shall send it off in the morning, sir. Sixty sovereigns – which is a vast sum of money, sir! If at all possible, could you add twenty more, sir?”

Richard showed surprised – he had not imagined that O’Grady would want a cut.

“Not for me, sir. To my acquaintance as a deposit against future needs, you might say. He is an enterprising sort, sir, and might well come across other oddments of value to us. He is honest in his way, one might say, and will not forget he owes us.”

It was no way to run a war. Richard found the coins, tucked away in the bottom of a small document case, finest leather with his initials, a gift from Primrose, she imagining that a colonel must need such. He had brought it with him, unable to leave it behind, and it had proved useful for keeping his hairbrushes and razor and oddments.

“Eighty, it is, ‘Major. Useful to have a rich father, I must say!”

“Not that you have need of such a one, sir. You would have made the top, as they say, with or without him.”

Paisley brought Richard’s meal in and O’Grady withdrew, leaving him to chew his way through a tough and unnamed cut of beef, clearing his plate because that was demanded of him before an action. He had to show unmoved and with a cast-iron gut – in no way upset by the prospect of an evening of bloodshed. The men watched him, he knew; embarrassing as it was, he provided them with an inspiration – he was the hero they could try to measure themselves against. Where he led, they were proud to follow.

It was a burden.

Worst of all was that he had to show unknowing – he was not to notice hero-worship, was to be unaware of the men who grew their moustaches and combed their hair as he did, who copied his every mannerism from respect and admiration, junior officers and other ranks alike. Not all of them, by a long way; sufficient to be an irritation. He could never act without thought – was he to pop his head above the parapet to take quick look at the lines, another fifty would do the same before the day was out. Was he ever to show angry at a man who committed some military offence, the poor fellow might find himself kicked half to death before evening – too great a punishment for a dirty rifle or unshaven face.

“Right, Paisley. Let’s be about it.”

Shoes exchanged for heavy boots; working uniform with pouches; a Sam Browne belt, not part of the Bedfordshires’ working uniform but very convenient for carrying oddments on a raid; sidearm in its holster; trench knife in a loop on the other side, club next to it; flashlight clipped to the crossbelt over his chest; reloads for the pistol into his pouches; peaked cap exchanged for a sort of woollen Glengarry pinched from one of the Highland regiments and with its badges changed.

“Shows up less at night, sir. Got an officer’s hat on, makes you a target.”

Richard bowed to Paisley’s superior knowledge.

“Let us join Mr Draper, ready to commence the evening’s entertainment, Paisley.”

He knew that his words would be heard and repeated, that trench raids would be ‘entertainments’ for the remainder of the battalion’s existence.

He marched down the trench, passing the other three raiding parties making ready to go out at the same time, exchanging a few words with the officers, noticing but not officially seeing who had managed to find a tot of rum or whisky for their men.

Draper’s party did not smell of spirits when he reached them. He was not entirely surprised.

“Ready to go, Mr Draper?”

“Yes, sir. All in hand, sir. Twelve men with trench-fighting weaponry, sir. Myself and my second lieutenant included in that total, sir. Together with your four that makes a large party, sir.”

Richard glanced about saw that Orpington had appeared, fully equipped, stood at his shoulder next to O’Grady.

“So it does, Draper. Who has a Lewis?”

“None, sir. Thought it better to keep them safe in the trench, sir. Don’t want to risk losing a gun, sir.”

“Get one, now. With three pans of reloads. Give it to a corporal.”

“No corporals with us, sir. Better to keep the valuable men back, I thought.”

“Get one, now. Send a runner to the other three parties to delay start time by thirty minutes.”

It took nearly ten minutes to identify a corporal who was big enough to carry the seventeen pounds weight of the gun and to ready him to go out with three men carrying a pan apiece and to stay at his shoulder.

“Here, Corporal.”

“Sir. Corporal Miller, sir.”

“Are you used to a Lewis, Miller?”

“Yes, sir. One of the regular gunners, sir, being as I am bigger than most. Can tuck it into me shoulder easy like, sir.”

Miller was massive, a full head taller than Richard and broad with it.

“Good. Use your own discretion for opening fire, Miller.”

The big man nodded, seemed not at all upset at the prospect of having to make his own decisions.

Richard discovered that Draper had simply added the four men to the party, bringing them up to twenty, far too many for a stealthy raid.

“Nominate eight riflemen to hold back, to provide covering fire as we pull out, Draper. Have you a lance-corporal for them?”

He had, was able to name the eight quickly.

“Right, are we ready?”

At fifteen minutes past midnight they crawled over the lip of the trench and through the narrow gaps in their own wire, zigzagging along the marked passages between the twenty or so yards of razor-sharp barbs. They tied white rags to the exits to find them again on the way back.

Thirty yards across the narrow no-man’s-land of their salient brought them to the German wire. They dropped to their bellies and followed two men with cutters, slowly clipping the bottom wires and hooking them up to give a passage eighteen inches high and a little more than two feet wide. It took half an hour to work their way underneath the wire, unseen and unheard, knowing that three other parties were doing the same and that if one was spotted there would be flares up and machine guns raking the wire hopefully, randomly searching for more.

Draper was at Richard’s shoulder, panting increasingly heavily.

“Hush!”

The noise reduced, slowly grew again.

They came to their knees on the German side of the wire, readying themselves, waiting on the clock. The wire cutters remained, enlarging the holes and to act as guides to the retreating raiders.

Twelve fifty precisely.

“Go!”

They lobbed grenades left and right into the trench, waited for them to explode and jumped in, stabbing and battering at dark figures as they ran out of dugouts. Paisley worked his way along the trench, tossing grenades into each opening he passed.

Richard watched the action, jumping forward with his club once as a lost German tried to run past him.

The Lewis Gun rattled off half a pan, spraying down the trench at movement coming towards them.

They had been in for five minutes. He heard more explosions distant a couple of hundred yards where the other raids were active.

“Fall back. Badges!”

They had thought it unlikely they would be able to drag prisoners back under the wire; every man should have been ordered to collect identifying badges and shoulder flashes instead.

They dived under the wire, a half-seen officer numbering them off as they passed.

“Orpington?”

“Sir. Quickly. Explain later.”

Richard crawled, tight on the heels of the man ahead, a matter of seconds to traverse the made tunnel. Once through the wire, they came half upright, scrabbling as fast as they could, waiting for the guns to fire, running at full pelt through their own passages and over the parapet, falling into the arms of the men waiting for them, laughing and cheering now they were back. Sergeant Major O’Grady commenced a roll call; it should have been Draper or his lieutenant.

“Here, ‘Major.”

Paisley’s voice and Orpington’s, eight more in succession, none of the raiders missing.

“Where’s the back-up, ‘Major?”

“Here already, sir. Under Captain Draper’s command, sir.”

Draper stepped forward.

“Thought I’d better secure the rear, sir. Make sure you came to no harm in the withdrawal. Dropped back to command them so they would not get in the way, sir. Held them this side of the German wire.”

“Did you get into the trench?”

“No, sir. Couldn’t as I was with the riflemen, sir. Behind the wire was the best place for them, I thought.”

“Your lieutenant?”

“Second, actually, sir. Only a boy. Kept him with me, in case I needed to send a runner to you. No need for a great mass of officers in the trench, sir.”

It was a thin argument. In front of a court martial it would probably raise a sufficiency of doubt to prevent a conviction, would leave Draper with a stained reputation but not dismissed from the battalion or actually punished. His Company would be treated as pariahs by the rest of the battalion; their whole efficiency would be downgraded.

“Very well, Mr Draper. Your men did well. Stand down now.”

His words were heard and would be repeated exactly as he had said them.

Richard made his way back to the second line and to his own dugout, turned to the field telephone, knowing that Braithwaite would not have turned in.

“Highly successful, sir, at first sight. Waiting for reports from the other three parties. No casualties to mine and I have a collection of badges and one of those light machine guns, brought back by the Sergeant Major and young Orpington between them. A Madsen Gun, so Orpington tells me – I don’t know myself. Much the size of a Lewis.”

The Brigadier knew nothing of the gun, was sure it was a feather in their cap to have captured one for inspection.

“Got a problem, sir, and one I don’t know how to solve.”

He gave Braithwaite a detailed account of Draper’s actions.

“Bastard! Chicken as they come, Baker, and not sufficiently flagrant that you can put him before a court. What you can do is limited… Put him at the front of any action we take to straighten the line – that is being considered, by the way, prior to a big push on the Artois battlefield for the third time this year. That penalises his whole company and doesn’t guarantee that he will be among the casualties. A good chance that he will dive for cover early and be one of those who comes back, in fact.”

“He has asked to return to the Hampshires, to a battalion going out to India. I would be happy to get rid of him. Do I want to send him off to a place of safety? Is that fair?”

“Is it buggery, Baker! Transfer him, by all means, but not to India. Give me a couple of days. Let me talk to Fotherby and Atkinson – they won’t want him to stay and possibly end up making a scandal. Good chance they’ll be able to find some way of stuffing him! I’ll get onto them first thing in the morning. Fotherby will be awake and active by ten o’clock, I’m sure!”

The other three captains arrived with their first reports and with their captures – badges from a regiment of Saxons and a detachment of artillery.

“A small mortar, sir, on wheels, too big to bring across. Stuffed a grenade into the training mechanism in the base, should have left it well broken.”

“Well done, Harris. We could use mortars of our own. Word is that there is one in development – when we’ll see it, who knows? No casualties?”

“Two wounded, cuts and bruises, no more. We killed the sentries and the rest were asleep in their dugouts. They were wearing new uniforms – muddy, obviously, but not faded and old yet. At a guess, they had been in the line less than a week, maybe the same time as us, replaced the previous men at the same time we did, after their battle.”

“Suggests they took high casualties, same as ours did. Worth knowing. Well observed, Harris!”

Harris was one of those affected by hero-worship, blushed scarlet at the compliment from his magnificent colonel.

Captain Thomas reported losing one man dead.

“Unlucky, sir. Jumped into the trench and landed square on the sentry’s bayonet. Stuck himself from front to back and six inches showing out behind him. Young Purkiss, who was willing and never got anything right first time. No second chance, this time round. Bright lad, had a lot of potential, I thought. We brought him back, didn’t want to leave him for the Germans to bury. Besides that, badges of a Saxon regiment – all of them the same in the one section of trench. Put a grenade into a dugout full of ammunition as we left. Lucky we didn’t hit it going in. Killed at least a dozen Huns, might be more.”

Richard took quick notes, nodded his satisfaction.

“Only one loss, and that by bad luck. A good raid, Thomas. Captain Holmes, how did you get on?”

“Got a prisoner, sir. He’s a bit cut up from dragging him behind us, tied up, through the wire, in the aid post at the moment. Nothing serious.”

“Well done! Intelligence are forever asking for prisoners to talk to. Hawkeswill, can you telephone them for me?”

“Immediately, sir.”

Hawkeswill scurried off, making a show of being busy.

“Makes us show up in a good light, Holmes, taking a prisoner. The news will go up to Corps, for sure, possibly to Army. I’ll make sure your name is attached, Holmes.”

“Thank you, sir. Apart from that, we took minor cuts and bruises, nothing serious. My sergeant found what must have been a battalion rations store. He left it well alight.”

Richard had no doubt that he would have looted it first – D Company would be chewing on German sausage for the next day or two, and quite right that they should.

“Found their aid post, as well, sir. Looked like nothing more than another dugout and the men threw a grenade in first, checked it afterwards.”

“Bad luck, Holmes. Wouldn’t expect to find an aid post in the front line of trenches. Couldn’t expect the men to look for one or to examine each dugout before they bombed it. Sort of thing that happens. Don’t mention it in your report.”

“No warning to the men to be more careful in future, sir?”

“No. Definitely not. Anything in the front line is fair game, especially at night. As far as I am concerned, you acted perfectly correctly.”

Richard wrote up his report next day, made no mention of the aid post, simply including the figures for dead in the estimated total.

Brigadier Braithwaite appeared in person that afternoon, reaching as far as the second line of trenches and creating a precedent – most senior officer to have penetrated so far forward.

“Your Captain Draper, Baker. He is to come back with me. Promote up a man in his place and set Orpington into the vacancy. There is a battalion of Hampshires, the 11th, currently in Marseille, due to board a trooper for Mombasa in East Africa, to join the campaign there. In the bush, chasing German askaris, unsuccessfully so far. Not a lot of action, other than long marches though appalling terrain. The figures for fevers alone are higher than we are losing here on the Western Front.”

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer chap, sir. I shall have the greatest of pleasure in personally informing him that he is to return to his own people.”

“Do that, Baker. The bulk of the battalion is in Marseille already. He can join the baggage party which is entraining this afternoon. No chance of him getting lost on the journey south, that way. I shall have a word with their adjutant, who is with the baggage, just to make sure he does not wander off by accident.”

“Excellent! Thank you, sir.”

“Atkinson is pleased with the raids, Baker, the prisoner especially. He has instructed there are to be no more this month. He thinks the Hun will be too alert and in any case we should be preparing for the big push, which now seems a certainty. Towards the end of September, around Loos, aiming to drive the Germans back out of France and set us up for the final victory next summer when Kitchener’s New Army arrives.”

“End of September, sir. Weather might not be ideal just then.”

“The sun will shine on the righteous, Baker! Or so the staff hopes!”

Chapter Two

Black Prince armoured cruiser made her way out of the Mediterranean on orders to rejoin the Grand Fleet at Scapa Flow.

Christopher Adams stood on her bridge, calling the course change to take her through the Straits of Gibraltar and then out into the Atlantic to go westabout Ireland and around the north of Scotland through the Pentland Firth.

The big ship responded slowly to the wheel, turning in her own time, increasing to the set cruising speed only slowly, her four funnels giving off a huge black mass of coal smoke, hundreds of feet high and tailing off behind for almost a mile. At more than thirteen thousand five hundred tons, she was almost as large as the predreadnought capital ships, though far less heavily armed with six nine point two inch rifles and a mass of six inch set low in broadside sponsons and unusable in anything other than a flat calm. If she had been designed at all, which many doubted, it was for long voyages on the Imperial sea lanes, policing the oceans of the world for the benefit of British trade. She was to be used with the Grand Fleet, was off to join the First Cruiser Division, whose possible function was to protect the battleships from torpedo attack by destroyers and light cruisers, all of which would be faster and handle far more easily.

“Awful waters, sir, northabout Scotland.”

The Captain nodded gravely.

“There is a possibility of commerce raiders in the eastern Atlantic – we are to watch for anything out of the ordinary, Adams. Doubt we shall see much. Policy is not to make the passage of the Channel and the North Sea. Full of submarines. Just starting to clear them, using airships, of all things! Don’t know what the Navy’s coming to! Flapping about in the air! What would Nelson have said to that?”

Christopher could not imagine, shook his head in dismay. Wise lieutenants did not argue with their captain, particularly those in his peculiar position. He suspected that Nelson would have enthusiastically supported anything that led to the confusion of his enemies – he had espoused new tactics and the innovation of the carronade in his day, would probably have demanded to fly in an airship. Not for him to say so on his captain’s bridge.

“Set additional lookouts, sir, on submarine watch?”

“Yes, the First will be setting double lookouts in daylight hours. No point to doing so at night – they can’t see anything then.”

“How close inshore on the Irish coast, sir?”

Intelligence reports insisted that German submarines had made contacts with Irish insurgents, delivering small arms and ammunition to them at the smaller fishing ports.

“I do not believe these tales of a great network of traitors in Ireland, Adams. A few madmen, that is all. We can ignore the very concept of whole villages seeing a German submarine and saying nothing. Remain twenty to forty miles distant from the coast, as convenient for keeping our course.”

Orders were to be obeyed and Christopher had no reason to suppose that Intelligence were particularly clever. Some remarkably strange officers gravitated into their ranks; he had been surprised not to have been contacted himself, being an obvious recruit, his career destroyed and himself potentially an embarrassment.

He was acting navigator, waiting on the formal confirmation of his promotion to the role, had every expectation of receiving the news quickly. His period as a pariah was over and he was accepted back into the hierarchy of the genteel. His career would never recover and he would be gently requested to send in his papers when the war ended, as part of the process of reducing the size of the wartime Navy; he was, however, no longer formally disgraced. He would leave with a respectable wartime record that might permit him to return to Town.

Only since he had been accepted again had he realised just how important his place in Society had been to him. His father would see to a career, he did not doubt. He wondered just how he would be able to serve the family, and whether they would actually permit him to remain in London. It might be that he would be acknowledged but sent off out of public view, banished to work in Ireland or France or some even more distant location where the family had interests. St Petersburg was a possibility, where there was at least a semblance of Society, or out to India, said to have some civilisation under the Raj; at worst Canada, known to be boring, or Australia which had still to recover from its convict days.

He had a future, other than suicide. It might still not be entirely attractive.

Course set for the next three hours, he was at liberty to leave the bridge, nodded to the watchkeeper and stepped down to the wheelhouse, checking who was on watch there, before going down to his cabin. An unknown leading seaman had the wheel, was showing quietly relaxed and confident, easing the ship’s head as she crossed the Atlantic swell, not permitting the rollers to push her off course. Satisfied, he paced off to the wardroom, seeking a quiet cup of tea and perhaps a sandwich, having breakfasted early to be on the bridge for the passage through the Straits.

The Navigator had been taken off the ship by small boat as they passed Gibraltar, promoted to Commander in a predreadnought in harbour there. The promotion to full commander was welcome, the ship was not, and he had left Black Prince in some dismay, going from a cruiser renowned as a crack ship to an ancient battleship staggering off to take part in the bombardments off the Dardanelles and to spend the bulk of her days at anchor in Mudros as a defence against sorties by the Austro-Hungarian or Turkish navies. Christopher had felt sympathy for him, delight that he had taken over as Navigator, must be promoted soon. He did not think he would be superseded, replaced by another man; he had returned to the mainstream of the service.

He smiled to himself as he sat with his teacup to hand. A year previously and he had been one of the coming men, certain to be an admiral in his thirties; now he was happy that he would make lieutenant commander with a certainty that there would be nothing more forthcoming.

‘How have the mighty fallen’, he mused, entertained by his own philosophical acceptance of failure.

“You seem happy this morning, Adams!”

“Contemplating my blessings, Crewe. Back in the real Navy after playing about in the Med. Much to be said for a big ship, you know.”

The Gunnery Commander nodded ponderous agreement. Black Prince was an armoured cruiser and was definitely not a small ship.

“Hear we are due for a few months of dockyard time, Adams. Admiralty has digested the loss of Good Hope at Coronel and noticed some of the reasons why. Finally worked out that placing guns within six feet of the waterline don’t make sense!”

“That’s quick going, Crewe! Barely six months since the details became known to them!”

“Shook them, a bit. Losing Good Hope and Monmouth after the three cruisers on the Broad Fourteens – made them think. The death of five thousand men on our side for no losses to the Germans should have made anybody think, Adams!”

“Yes, we have not done well so far in this war, Crewe.”

“The Falkland Islands, which was badly handled. Sunk one battle cruiser at the Dogger Bank – and let four more go! All we hear down the grapevine says Beatty made a cock of that. The newspapers, of course, are howling victory! Apart from that, all of our successes have come from the destroyers. Torpedo work, not the guns. Makes you think, don’t it! Mind you, some of those youngsters have shown really well – at least one of them has made lieutenant commander with his own half-flotilla before the age of twenty-one and carrying a chestful of decorations. My brother is a sub on one of his boats, man by the name of Sturton, heir to Viscount Perceval as well. Big future ahead of that gentleman!”

“Is that so? I was same year as him at Dartmouth and did two years as a mid on St Vincent in his company. Got on well with him, a likeable man and a good seaman in the making, no doubt of that. Four of us, there were. Hector McDuff went down with Good Hope – pleasant chap and well capable. The fourth was Richard Baker, and he was bloody useless! Never had a hope of making the grade and his father was asked to send his papers in, still a mid. Then he joined the Army and suddenly he was a hero – colonel now, I read recently. Same age as me. Engaged to Elkthorn’s daughter as well; saw it in The Times. Don’t know her but she sounds like a good catch.”

“That’s Baker the VC, is it? I knew he was one of us originally. Not uncommon for young mids to transfer across to the Army, of course, because they can’t get on at sea. Couple of very senior generals started off as sailors, I know. Sounds as if you were rubbing shoulders with the great, Adams.”

Christopher was shocked by that comment – until his misfortunes, he had been recognised as the greatest of the four. Now, he was the also-ran. That hurt.

He was surprised to discover just how much it pained him, to be disclosed as no more than ordinary, to be forced to accept that whatever his future might be, however far he might rise in a post-war occupation, he was no longer a golden boy. He might be successful; he could not be brilliant in other’s estimation.

It was a burden to carry, to cope with – no longer to be the cynosure of all eyes, to be the man all others must be compared against.

He managed to laugh in his turn, to tell the appropriate lie.

“Always knew that Sturton would be an admiral, and young. You know how one can tell that some of the youngsters have got that extra spark in them?”

Crewe did, regretted that it was not to be observed in any of the midshipmen or subs aboard Black Prince. Christopher agreed they were an ordinary bunch – little to distinguish any of them.

“You were saying something about the six inchers, Crewe?”

“Oh, yes. All to be shifted. The broadside sponsons to be removed and just six to be placed in turrets or casemates, uncertain which yet, on deck amidships. Only half the number of them, but all of them usable! At the moment we have twelve, and none of them can be fired in anything other than a flat calm! Reduces the guns, increases our firepower! Hopefully, they will give us new guns, not simply shift the existing barrels; the new marks of six inch have greater range and quicker loading, not that the range matters.”

“What about the three pounders, Crewe?”

“Bloody things! Twelve of them, using up gunlayers and crew and valueless in any practical sense. Sixty men and the ammunition passers and too small to do any good at all. Supposed to be used against torpedo boats, being small quickfirers, easy to lay on a fast-moving target – which is true enough, but a three pound shell is valueless in practical terms. Do much better with four or six twelve pounders.”

“Are they to be changed?”

“Not a chance, Adams! The Admiralty loves its three pounders and will not do away with them. They are a pretty gun, one must admit, with that long, slender barrel, and they can be tucked away into every odd corner on deck. ‘Bristling with guns’, like the old wooden walls they really wish we were still sailing. The Admiralty still hopes, in its heart of hearts, that the Grand Fleet will steam into battle at two cables distance and smash the High Seas Fleet before taking them by boarding. They will never be truly content with less. They still issue cutlasses, you know. Got four hundred of them tucked away somewhere. Supposed to hand them out whenever we go to action stations, believe it or not!”

Christopher shook his head in sympathy.

“When I was with the trawlers at Alex, before we moved into the Red Sea, we put in for revolvers for our boarding parties. Slave patrol – we stopped and searched a hundred bloody dhows! As I say, we asked for handguns and some old fool from the Gun Wharf turned up with cutlasses and a grindstone and a fellah to keep them sharp for us. Threatened us with court martials when we refused them and insisted on revolvers. Unbelievable. Luckily for us, we had rifles aboard from the submarine patrol days.”

“Heard about that, Adams. Some sort of merchant cruiser and a few trawlers and you actually killed one sub.”

“More luck than judgement, Crewe. We were shut down listening in the night and heard her engines revving high to charge her batteries. Managed to creep up on her on the surface and shell and ram her. The trawlers were set up for the Arctic, had bows reinforced for ice.”

“That’s the same trawlers they sent into the Red Sea, is it?”

“Exactly, Crewe! Unbelievable, except that I will now believe anything of the Admiralty. Shocking the things they will do unthinkingly. Incapable of thought, more likely. Jacky Fisher did a lot of good for the Navy in getting rid of deadbeat ships; a pity he could not do the same for the men.”

Crewe was shocked. Some of the old-timers were out of date, perhaps, yet they had the right ideas fundamentally.

“Still makes more sense to capture the enemy than to sink them, old chap. In Nelson’s day, more than one in ten of the Navy’s ships were French or Spanish or Dutch or Danish originally, captured in battle and used to our advantage. Good idea to close and capture, you know, Adams.”

“It is impossible with modern guns, Crewe. The explosive shell is a ship sinker. That’s why we should be practicing at ten miles and more, using the big guns as they should be. In Connaught, earlier this year, we opened fire on destroyers at twenty-eight thousand yards and drove them back to port before they had reached twenty-four. That’s how the guns should be used.”

“Good God! How did you do that? Never tried a target over five thousand, myself, and far more inclined to wait for three. Ridiculous sort of thing to do, when you consider it. How are you going to take their surrender at that distance?”

“You are not, Crewe. You must sink them. A destroyer that takes one of our nine point two inch bricks won’t survive very long, anyway. In these days of torpedoes, one must keep the small ships far distant. That means sink them at least five miles out.”

“Ten thousand yards? Hit a tiny destroyer at that range, old chap? Not sure that I would like to try, you know. No, blast them with six inch when they come to a reasonable distance. Open sights at half a mile is best. Can always dodge their torpedoes, you know.”

Christopher gave up the unequal argument. Crewe was incapable of assimilating any new ideas, it seemed. God help Black Prince if she ever went into battle.

“Not to worry, old fellow. Sun’s over the yardarm, is it not?”

Crewe agreed it was. A pink gin would be just the thing to set them up for the day.

The Atlantic was pleasantly calm, as it could be in summer, long low swells and little wind and a bright sun. Pleasure cruise weather. Black Prince made her way north, the west coast of Ireland just in sight and the lookouts scanning the sea for periscopes or anything out of the ordinary.

“Sailing vessel, four-masted barque, nor’west. Fifteen miles.”

Christopher put his glasses on the speck, picked out the masts and sails and little else. He waited for the officer of the watch to act.

Lieutenant Chalmers took up a large, old telescope, inherited from a sailor grandfather most likely, certainly of higher magnification than Christopher’s binoculars, had a little trouble finding the merchantman, finally settled onto her.

“Swedish flag. Two thousand tonner, thereabouts. Big. Four masts. All fore and aft sails. No topgallants. Smoke from a boiler on deck…”

He seemed puzzled by his last observation.

“Power winches, Holmes, to set sail. She can probably make do with a dozen deckhands.”

“Never heard of that, Adams.”

Holmes seemed faintly offended as if it were somehow wrong that a sailing ship should make use of steam power.

“Course from the States to France, perhaps, Adams?”

It was legitimate to ask the navigator’s advice on such matters.

“Or to Portugal – salt fish from the Grand Banks, maybe. Could be to Spain with American or Canadian wheat. Might be bound into the Med. Unlikely to be heading for an English port. Just possible she’s bound for Cork. What tack is she on?”

“Starboard, easy on the wind. Not beating up.”

Holmes was at a loss for what to do next, did not want to ask for advice on the actions he should take. Christopher made no attempt to say anything – he was not a watchkeeper.

“Captain to the bridge!”

Holmes had finally given an order. The wrong one in Christopher’s opinion, refusing all responsibility and taking no action.

Captain Gilpin-Brown appeared within the minute, assessed the situation within seconds, called a series of commands to respond.

“Close up main armament. Ten of port wheel. Increase revolutions for twenty knots. Yeoman, make the challenge.”

The merchantman raised another Swedish flag to the maintopmast in response.

“No signalling lamp. Don’t know the flag code. Typical merchantman. Any deck cargo?”

Deck cargo would be shrouded in tarpaulins, which might be concealing guns or torpedo tubes rather than crates if she was a commerce raider in disguise.

Christopher scanned her decks, saw them to be clear from bows to stern. No deck cabins; no cargo. He waited for Holmes to give the confirmation, there being no urgency.

“Clean, sir. Just a boiler by the mainmast.”

The Swedish flag was painted large on her hull, the gold and blue shining bright.

“Steer to pass within hailing range at five knots, Holmes.”

The Captain left it to Holmes to translate that command into a precise set of orders, noticed how long it took him to do so.

Christopher suspected that Mr Holmes’ personal report would have a couple of sentences added before evening, that he would be a long time waiting on his promotion.

A brief conversation with an English-speaking officer confirmed the Swede to be an innocent neutral bound for Cadiz with grain. She had made a quick passage and had seen nothing, which was normal for a neutral which had no business giving information to belligerents, possibly compromising their own status.

Black Prince returned to course, a brief note in the log saying only, ‘spoke Swedish barque Helga off Irish coast’.

Holmes spoke to Christopher later, looking much ruffled and calling for a brandy.

“Captain was a bit shirty, Adams! A lot of damned fuss and nonsense for a neutral! Nothing to concern ourselves about there, I would have thought.”

“There are a few commerce raiders out, Holmes. Not many and far less of a worry than the submarines might be but we need to keep an eye out for them. Not likely to be sailing ships, I will admit.”

Holmes was hardly placated; he thought he had done well enough that there was no need for the Captain to abuse him. He supped his brandy and calmed down, Christopher doing little to ease him. He had better things to do than calm the ruffled feathers of the incompetent.

“Off Londonderry, sir, by thirty miles. Course change for Bass Rock.”

“Very good, Adams. Make it so.”

Christopher gave the orders. They had seen no signs of submarines off the Irish coast and were not displeased to be on their way out of waters that might contain such unpleasant beasts. The likelihood was too high that the first indication of a submarine might be the plumes of water rising as its torpedoes struck their hull. All of the advantage lay with the hidden boat in the absence of any means of detecting them underwater.

The north of Scotland was far less stormy than normal and they made the anchorage at Scapa in good condition, entering through the Hoxa gate and saluting more than twenty ships senior to them before taking up an anchorage next to Duke of Edinburgh, of the same class as them.

“Connaught not here, sir?”

“In the yard, I believe, Adams, for the guns. Our turn when she comes out. Chance for leave then, as well.”

That led to a problem needing a deal of thought. Leave, three or four weeks away from the ship. Would he be welcome in London? There was no alternative to a letter home to his father. He sat to write, discarding half a dozen attempts before settling on a short and simple piece of information.

‘Lord Adams,

Dear sir,

I am now Navigating Officer of Black Prince, armoured cruiser, attached to the Grand Fleet at Scapa Flow. I have attained the rank of lieutenant commander, substantive. Promotion and posting and a Mention followed on a successful action in the Red Sea.

There is an expectation of leave while Black Prince is in the yard for an alteration to her guns. May I know if I will be welcome in your house?

Your son,

Christopher Adams.’

He thought it likely that his father would be fully informed about his circumstances, had to write on the assumption he would know nothing. It was not easy. He dropped the letter in the tray to go to the censors and then to the post. The Commander would read the officers’ letters himself, not leaving that task to the Seaman Writers in his office, for fear of their mouths. Even so, he did not like exposing his private business to the world in such a fashion.

Four days later, effectively return of post bearing in mind how isolated Scapa was, he received a reply. It was difficult to open the letter. He did so, annoyed to observe his own hands trembling.

A brief opening confirming that his father was aware of his career in the Mediterranean and had been made proud by it. Then to the meat of the letter.

‘You are welcome indeed to the family home, Christopher. Your eldest brother and I will be pleased to greet you again, particularly in the light of the way in which you have overcome your troubles. Your brother Arthur is in residence as well, currently, having been wounded in Flanders and requiring some months of recuperation; it is possible that he may never again be fit for active service, having been shot to the stomach and then exposed to poisonous gas which has harmed his lungs.’

“I say, Commander, what utter bastards the Germans are! My brother, a couple of years my elder, home from Flanders and effectively crippled by the inhalation of poison gas!”

That was very bad, the Commander agreed.

“Huns indeed, Adams!”

It was no way for gentlemen to fight a war, not white men! It had been argued that poison gases might be used against the wogs and fuzzy-wuzzies, savages who were strangers to the rules of war, but it was no way for the civilised to behave.

The news spread around the wardroom, was greeted with the utmost contempt. Such behaviour was simply wrong. It was a crime.

“Should try the Kaiser when the war is won and hang him! No way to treat a gentleman, you might say, but using poison gas is no way for a gentleman to behave!”

There was a restrained agreement with Crewe. Hanging a monarch was outside of the normal way of doing things, they admitted, yet his conduct had been criminal, a disgrace to the human race.

“Off to Queensferry, eight bells in the Morning Watch, Adams. Eight weeks, at least, in the dockyard. Leave for all those entitled, which includes you. As you are Navigator, with little to do in the yard, you may take four weeks. Give you the chance to show your face in Town again. Been away so long you will have been forgotten, I expect.”

“Third son and naval, little reason to recall me, Commander. No prize for an eligible daughter and years before I can think of getting married. Don’t know what I shall be doing after the war, in any case – no naval career for me.”

The Commander was aware – had to be in his position in the ship – of Christopher’s disgrace and rehabilitation.

“Bound to be something in the City, Adams, bearing in mind your family.”

“Possibly, Commander. Might be I would look overseas for a living. I expect the family will have interests in the States, even in Australia, where I could be useful – and not so stuffy as the Stock Exchange!”

The senior officers were sat in their own circle, in comfortable armchairs, slightly removed from the lieutenants and subs who made a noisier set, laughing and joking at the prospect of leave. The wardroom had slowly eased itself away from wartime austerity, the first enthusiasm waning and padded furniture reappearing. They no longer expected to descend into wild battle at any minute.

“Be glad to take the train south, Commander. A few weeks away from this bleak corner of the Earth will be more than welcome.”

“Less than ideal as an anchorage, Adams – I cannot call it a harbour! In these days of wireless, I do not know why we are not dispersed along the coast in ports from Aberdeen south to Hull. It would be easy to set a rendezvous in the North Sea or off Norway and the ships and crews could be far better looked after.”

The Victorian minds of the Admiralty demanded that the Grand Fleet must be held together, each ship within sight of the Admiral’s signalling mast. Command must be exercised by flag signals – that was the proper way of organising one’s ships.

It was very sad, all agreed. On the other hand, it was a magnificent sight – the lines of battleships, two dozens of dreadnoughts at any one time, and cruisers and the flotillas of destroyers, all at anchor and just waiting to leap out into the ocean to defeat Britannia’s foes.

“A great pity that the High Seas Fleet will not come out, gentlemen. They are spoiling a damned good war!”

It was all the fault of the Germans and their appalling, lame-brained Kaiser, that was clear to every officer.

“Makes one wonder if we are not better off, Commander, having politicians running the country rather than a Kaiser like they have.”

That was going rather far. The Commander agreed that King George, God bless him, was not a ruler in the sense that the Kaiser was; that was not the British way. Even so, some of the politicians were rather dubious sorts… There was Asquith, who was a gentleman, and Lloyd George, who was not. More than that need not be said! Add to that, there were the Irish, who were a damned nuisance in the House of Commons, and this new Labour Party, which was an embarrassment though unlikely ever to be significant.

“Damned fellow wore a flat cap into the House, Adams!”

Christopher agreed that was very bad. If the man could not afford proper morning dress, then at least he could find a frockcoat and silk hat and pretend to be a gentleman. He understood this McDonald fellow had actually worn a lounge suit as well!

That was simply disgraceful – next thing, he would be open-necked!

They considered that possibility, decided it was too much – no respectable man could descend to that level of depravity.

“He has to win an election, after all, old chap. Can you imagine conceivably voting for a man without a collar and tie? What would we do if we saw an officer in that state?”

Christopher had no doubt they would escort him below, place him in the hands of the Doctor who would hold him safe until they could send the poor fellow ashore to a secure asylum.

It made them uncomfortable even to consider such a descent from decency.

“Saw it on the merchant cruiser, Fanny Brown, you know, Commander. The first lieutenant, reservist, of course, off duty and sunbathing, of all things! On the deck with his shirt wide open to take a tan!”

They were almost amused, it was so outlandish.

“He is a Canadian, mark you. Merchant service this twenty years. Had some hopes to be given his own ship. Can you imagine what sort of captain that would be?”

They could not, sympathised with Christopher for the hardships he had suffered.

Black Prince steamed into Queensferry, beneath the great bridge and into the hands of the dockyard. Everything valuable was locked away, the officers clearing their cabins and the stewards taking ashore all alcohol from the wardroom. The yard hands were renowned for their light fingers, would steal anything that was left unguarded.

Christopher took all of his navigating equipment, down to the last pencil, and placed it in the safe in the Commander’s offices.

“Past experience, sir. I was on Iron Duke when she was fitting out, as a sub. I saw what happened there. Couldn’t stop the thefts, no matter what we tried or how many we caught and placed under arrest. Gunmetal, bronze and brass fittings and valves disappeared damned near as fast as they were put in place. At one stage we had pickets on the engine rooms, searching every dockyard matey as they left the ship. They seemed outraged that we stopped them – ‘perks’ they said it was. Tradition, they had always done it, believe it or not! Led to a strike once when we put six of them in front of the magistrates and saw them sent to gaol.”

The Commander shook his head while agreeing that he had seen the same, more than once.

“Should have the yards under military discipline, Adams. While we employ civilians, no telling what they will get up to.”

It was obviously so.

“Won’t be like this in Germany, I will wager!”

Christopher did not know. Considering the Prussian reputation for discipline, he had to admit it was unlikely.

Two days and he was off on leave, taking the night sleeper south, enjoying peacetime standards of luxury – the LNER did not believe in austerity for its passengers. There was much to be said for a leisurely dinner followed by a nightcap of best single malt Scotch before retiring to a comfortable bunk. Breakfast running through the Home Counties and then leaving the train with a whole day ahead of one – ideal for a businessman and comfortable for an officer with the money to afford it. Christopher took pains not to notice lesser mortals emerging from the carriages where they had dozed upright in their seats.

There were still taxis available for the relatively few who emerged from the sleepers; the rest of the passengers used ‘buses or the Underground.

It was a delight to return to the world of privilege that he feared had been lost forever.

The butler welcomed him and nodded to a limping footman to collect his luggage – not much, a mere pair of suitcases as he must visit his tailor as a matter of urgency.

“My father at home, Buckley?”

“In his study, sir. You are to go to him.”

Not so easy, readying himself for the first meeting. He squared his shoulders and glanced at his uniform to see all was proper before pacing down the hallway and knocking before entering.

“Christopher! Good to see you home, boy! You are thinner than you were, I think.”

“The Red Sea, sir. It pares away every ounce of excess flesh.”

“Never been that way, myself. It has a bad name. It saved yours, however – well done. You should have had more than a Mention, as you know. Not to worry! What’s past is past and your brother Jeremy is aware of his foolishness! Won’t see him while you’re here – he has been working in the Party and has been sent off to America as a junior minister to discuss trade. After that, he’s bound for Canada with his delegation, talking about wheat, I gather. Good for him! I am still somewhat upset with him for destroying your naval career! He should have known better, damned fool!”

“A mistake, sir, made with no ill-intention.”

“Good of you to say so, Christopher. I have been thinking about your future, I would add. Can’t be in the services. Could be in motor vehicles. Cars. Going to be thousands of them on the roads after the war, bound to be. Not a deal of money in making them, I suspect, but a fortune in looking after them. Seems to me that we will need a garage in every town, more than one for some places, selling oil and petrol, and offering repair and maintenance. A countrywide network all selling our own fuel by arrangement with the big oil companies. I would not be surprised if we ended up with three or four hundred garages across the country, with the chance of each one making a thousand or so in profit! It would need a keen young brain in charge, part of the modern age, not an old hangover from Victorian days such as myself. What do you think? A damned good income for you and a money-spinner for the family.”

“What an excellent idea, sir! A lot of work, especially in the early years, but well worthwhile. I would be more than glad to assist, sir.”

“Hoped you might!”

“What of Arthur, sir? Will he be up to a busy life?”

The Viscount’s face clouded. He shook his head brusquely.

“It’s a quiet existence on the estate for him, Christopher. He might be sufficiently active to do some of the work of running the farms. Chances are he will spend his days sitting out on the balcony, looking out over the hills. It’s all he can do to walk downstairs from his room to sit at table. His lungs are gone. He might just recover to be able to sit a horse – I don’t know and neither do the doctors. He must spend most of his life in the clean air of the countryside, that is a certainty.”

“Is he out of bed during the day?”

“Not at this time of the morning. Another couple of hours before you will see him downstairs.”

“How did he come to be in the firing line, sir? I had thought him to be on the staff.”

“He was, doing rather well and set up to become major very soon. There was a report that the Germans were advancing under the cover of poison gas – chlorine, I believe – and that the men were breaking before it. His general did not believe it, could not imagine that even the Hun would stoop so low, and Arthur volunteered to go forward and discover the reality. It would seem that he found out the hard way.”

“Poor chap. No such thing as a gasmask, is there?”

“They exist, the Germans have them! None have been issued to British forces. I am told that the possibility was canvassed and was turned down as too expensive – a quarter of a million masks initially and an ongoing supply of as many again each year. At least forty thousand pounds.”

It was a large sum of money, Christopher admitted.

“It is nothing, Christopher! We are spending as much as a million a day already, purely on the war! It might be more, probably is, but the accounting systems have failed under the strain. How much is being syphoned off into private pockets, God alone knows! We are short of shells for the artillery and the Navy both; even basic items of uniform are not always available; prices are rocketing, as far a government contracts are concerned. Nothing to be done about it, either! Lloyd George will have no part in a policing of the system, says we must accept a little of criminality as the price of a massive expansion of production.”

“I presume, sir, that means he is taking a cut himself?”

“Some, undoubtedly. He mostly accepts other sorts of favours – the man is sexually insatiable, it seems!”

“Unpleasant, sir! One generally expects that sort of thing to be conducted discreetly, not in the apparent open view of all in Whitehall!”

“Not quite that bad, Christopher. Nearly so. Not our sort at all, Lloyd George. Strange thing is, he is also honest in his determination to improve the lot of the ordinary man. I speak to him most weeks in the way of business and there can be no doubt of his integrity in that way. A man of two personalities, one might say. I do not understand him, at all.”

The Navy had left Christopher with a fine sense of right and wrong, of black and white; he could not comprehend a person who was both.

“Beyond me, sir. What of you, sir? If you will pardon me prying, have you ever considered taking another lady? My mother has been dead these ten years now, sir.”

“No. Thought about it, Christopher. Cannot bring myself to do so. I was happy with your mother, as you know. A once in a lifetime experience, I would suggest. In my fifties now – no time to set up house again! Good of you to be concerned, my boy. I have suggested to Jeremy that it is more than time that he regularised his existence – he needs to produce an heir. Arthur will hardly do so now. You are at sea and in a dangerous occupation, it seems, bearing in mind the losses the Navy has suffered.”

“Not on Black Prince, sir. A cruiser who will be accompanying the Grand Fleet if she goes into action. Protecting the battleships by picking off the torpedo flotillas and their accompanying light cruisers is our role. Always a bigger target than us to attract enemy fire, sir!”

Chapter Three

“Your half-flotilla will take station back in your old hunting grounds, Sturton, just outside Dutch territorial waters off the Scheldt. Placing yourself ready for action by about an hour after nightfall, earlier if there is cloud cover and rain to reduce visibility, crawl down the coast towards the site of the bombardment, off Zeebrugge. We are using the new monitors for the first time. Heavy guns, old twelve inch taken from predreadnoughts, poor engines – almost as if they were large scale Humbers. Don’t know what the end result might be. We want you in place to pick up anything that comes down from the north, from any of the small ports. Thing is, Sturton, we don’t quite know what might have worked its way down to the Belgian ports. Might be small, fast gunboats; could be torpedo launches; might be coasters given some armour and with a couple of guns bolted on; possible that there is a larger merchantman or two set up as conventional merchant cruisers; sure to be converted trawlers. Depends what was in harbour when they were taken.”

Simon showed a keen face to the Commodore. There was no gain to expressing doubts. It seemed to him that the monitors were being set up as bait, their bombardment no more than an invitation for the enemy to come out to play.

“What of submarines, sir?”

“Good question! We think they are all kept in pens upriver from Zeebrugge, the other side of the big locks. That being the case, if it is so, they will be unable to put to sea. Too great a risk to open the lock gates during a bombardment – a lucky shell and they could be jammed.”

“And harbour batteries, sir?”

“Exist and are very large. More effective in daylight. Trying to aim onto muzzle flashes at night is anything but an easy task.”

Commodore Tyrwhitt seemed dismissive of the batteries. That being so, Simon had no choice other than to accept that they could be ignored. Lieutenant commanders, no matter how much the favourite they might be, did not argue with officers three substantive ranks their senior.

“Have the monitors wireless sets that can talk to us, sir? Be useful to pass the word if they find themselves under attack.”

Tyrwhitt regretted not.

“They can keep in contact with Dunkerque, who can message us. With luck, we will be able to contact you.”

It was better than nothing.

“Chances are that Lancelot will not be able to get a message to Harwich, sir. Our set is not the most powerful.”

“So, you will be unable to inform the monitors of what may be rushing down upon them. Unfortunate. I shall investigate the possibility of installing a larger set, Sturton. May not be practical. Worth looking at.”

“Our searchlight as well, sir, is not the most powerful. L Class were not well served that way.”

“That would demand a larger generator as well. Doubt we have them in our yard. End up being a substantial dockyard job at Chatham. I will look into the possibilities, Sturton. Anything else while I am considering a refit?”

“The Maxim, sir. Well positioned on its bandstand but underpowered. I would far rather see a two pound pompom in its place. A six pounder QF might be a possibility, sir – handy for close range work.”

“Pompom would be preferable, Sturton. Can put that on a dual-purpose mounting so that it could act in an anti-aircraft role as well. Seeing more and more of seaplanes along the Belgian coast and some of them carrying explosive bombs these days. We are looking to modify the Lewis mountings so that they can fire upwards as well.”

“The advancement of science, sir. I am told we have balloons out submarine chasing now, in place of surface ships.”

“Assisting surface ships, more correctly, Sturton. Doing a good job, too. Put a pair of eyes a mile up in the sky and they can see twenty miles and more, or something like, and spot any submarine on the surface and drive it down. Useful machines, the balloons!”

Simon accepted his senior’s knowledge was better than his. In this case, it likely was.

“Right, sir. Orders are to sail this forenoon, overnight in Dunkerque and make all ready, sailing as if for Harwich in late afternoon.”

“Exactly. We know there have been spies in Dunkerque – we caught them. That being the case, it’s a good bet there will be more by now, replacements sent in. So many refugees that it’s impossible to sort the few bad eggs out. The authorities are trying to put them all to work – we need roadbuilders and labourers of all sorts in the rear areas, there are jobs for them. A few months and they will have emptied the town of the spare bodies that infest it just now – refugees all over the bloody place! They tell me it’s worse in London – not just Belgians but every sort of Balkan object as well. Word is that the government is busy setting up governments in exile and getting them to pass conscription laws for their own people. We shall end up with all sorts of battalions within a few months. Useful! We need the men and they are better off carrying a rifle than begging in the streets of London.”

It was war and Britain had a tiny army. All bodies were welcome.

They exchanged salutes and Simon marched off to Lancelot, wondering why he had been favoured with a discussion of more than the simple operation he was to undertake. It was almost as if Tyrwhitt was coaching him, bringing him along in the Service. He was owed no favours, he was sure… His maternal grandfather was a powerful man and had shown some liking for him when they had finally met. A quiet word from Isaacs the Banker might easily translate into a message from the Admiralty to ‘look after young Sturton’.

Perhaps he was in the same sort of position as poor old Adams had once been. Better off than Adams, because he knew from his example just how easily a golden boy could be stripped of his gilt.

The boatswain’s pipes squealed as he trotted up the short brow and onto Lancelot’s deck, looking about him to see that all was as it should be. Higgins had the watch, an extra reason to double-check.

He saw nothing out of place until he glanced at the bridge, saw something different on the wings.

“What’s that, Higgins?”

“Just fitted, sir. Mr Rees set them up this morning. A new sort of Lewis, sir, with a pan that carries ninety-seven rounds instead of forty-seven. Twins, sir, which needed a bit of fiddling with the mountings, or so he said. Much more poke in a fight, sir.”

“’Poke’, Mr Higgins?”

“Yes, sir. His word, sir, not mine.”

“Ah! If the Commissioned Gunner says so, then it must be right. Perfectly correct, young man!”

“Thank you, sir. Look forward to using them, sir. I like the Lewis!”

Simon was amazed by such enthusiasm from their very own village idiot. The boy might be growing up. Perhaps he had started shaving.

“Make sure you are familiar with them, Mr Higgins, and then bring all of the bridge up to scratch, myself included. Never know, I might have to lend a hand one day.”

It was clear from the expression on Higgins’ face that he did not think God should descend so far as to pull a trigger.

“Are you happy with your four inch, Mr Higgins?”

“Yes, sir. No problems with the guns, sir. I like them. It’s not like navigation, sir. One knows where one is with a gun.”

Simon nodded gravely, only too aware that Higgins rarely knew where he was when navigating.

“We must look at making you a gunnery specialist perhaps, Mr Higgins…”

That would mean Whale Island. Everything at the double and precise. Mature consideration, taking all of five seconds, suggested that Higgins would not survive the first day of his gunnery course.

“Although, perhaps not. General duties rather than a specialisation – often a better route to promotion.”

“Oh, good, sir. The mater wrote me only yesterday enquiring how soon I would be captain of my own ship. I am writing back now to explain that it takes a number of years, even in wartime. I cannot possibly be given even the smallest boat until I am a lieutenant, and that will not be this year.”

Or next, Simon suspected, unless…

“There is word down the line of small gunboats and torpedo boats in the offing, Mr Higgins. A crew of three or four, perhaps, for the torpedo boats. Coastal Motor Boats, I believe they are calling them. A young lieutenant, even a sub, could make a name for himself with one of those.”

“The mater would be terribly delighted was I to be given a command, even a little one. She was so pleased when I was given my Mention, sir, told me I should give you her thanks. I thought it might be undisciplined if I did, sir, so I did not.”

“It’s not entirely usual, Mr Higgins. Not an offence, though. Express my good wishes to her in your letter, if you would be so good.”

“Oh, she would be delighted by that, sir. She has told me how lucky I was to end up under your command and how kind of you to take me with you to your next ship.”

If only the poor boy knew the reality, that he had been dumped on Simon and left with him as result of pressure from on high.

“I have no doubt that you will make a fine officer and a credit to me, Mr Higgins. Persevere with your navigation – you will have to find your own way if ever you end up in a boat of your own.”

Higgins beamed, delighted that the captain he worshipped should say such kind things to him. He would work his very hardest to justify his faith in him.

Simon retreated to his cabin, calling for Canning, his first lieutenant.

“Zeebrugge again, Canning. Sail on this morning’s tide for Dunkerque, a high speed run and a few manoeuvres while we are at it – just basic stuff, line astern to abreast then to echelon, presenting the broadsides to either quarter, sort of thing. You can deal with that – good experience for you. I have recommended you for command, by the way.”

Canning made his thanks, having thought that his previous captain’s personal report on him would doom him for years.

“What did he have against you, Canning?”

“Well, in fact, sir, it was more a private sort of thing… Not really a Service matter.”

“Oh, good! That will make it far more interesting!”

Canning surrendered and told all.

“Very well, sir. It was a matter of a young lady in Dover – no, that’s wrong, definitely not a lady! Not a whore as such, sir, far from it, she never took money though she had no objection to the odd expensive little present – every week, that was. I knew her first and we had a bit of a thing going for a few weeks. It tailed off, as these things do, sir, and she met up with the captain. Might be she dropped me in his favour, in fact, he being able to afford more expensive presents. All done in good humour, staying friends, you might say, until she fell out with the captain. Why and how, I do not know, but it was in company and she tore him off a strip and ended up by saying that he need not act so self-satisfied, he was not half so good in bed as Brian Canning!”

“Whoops! How soon after that did he file his court martial papers for insubordination?”

“Within the day, sir. I informed my Friend of the details and he spoke to the lawyer from the Attorney General’s department and the Court never heard anything in public – to avoid scandal – and dismissed the charges against me. It did look as if it was going to end my career, sir, then they sent me here as an effective promotion.”

“Quite right, too, Canning. An abuse of the Service, trying to court-martial you. Funny, though!”

“After the event perhaps, sir. Young McCracken should make lieutenant very soon, sir. An able lad. It will allow us to promote young Waller as well.”

“Agreed. I shall put their papers through to the Commodore later in the week. I intend to recommend Higgins for one of these little torpedo craft that are coming into service. He might do well in one of them. He won’t make the grade in anything else.”

“Hardly wise, I would have thought, sir. Not the most able of young men… In fact, damned near the least able I have ever come across.”

“I know. His parentage is the problem, Canning. Let me explain…”

A couple of minutes and Canning sat back, amused and horror-stricken simultaneously.

“One of Dirty Bertie’s bastards! Supposed to be a number of them about, sir. Got to do something for him… A small boat going out in hunt of big game along the coast gives him the chance to make a name for himself without demanding a lot by way of ability. Gets him off our backs as well, sir.”

“Exactly, Canning. I suspect it will get him off everybody’s back in short order. He will take the craziest risks for not realising what they are. There’s a chance he will get away with it – I hope so, I have a slight liking for the lad. If he succeeds, then he becomes the Admiralty’s problem – they will have to work out what to do with him next. If he fails, then he is nobody’s problem; chances are there won’t even be a body to bury.”

“Highly satisfactory, sir. Young Waller is up for his certificate, by the way. Be useful to have him as a watchkeeper.”

“That’s quick – mind you, he has been yachting since he was ten, crewing that is, so he probably knew all he needed before he joined up. Get it written up and I will present it to him.”

Canning produced the document, typed up by a seaman writer on the depot ship, looking very official. Simon signed it and called for Waller.

The boy ran from the wardroom, a matter of a very few yards.

“Found this piece of paper lying about my desk, Waller. It belongs to you.”

A few seconds to take in what it actually was followed by a pleased grin.

“That makes me a watchkeeping officer, does it not, sir?”

“It does, Waller. Well done. You are truly one of us now. Keep learning – there is a lot more to pick up. A good start, young man! Mr Canning will rewrite the watch list to include you with early effect.”

They moved up to the bridge, readying for the day’s business.

“Yeoman, signal half-flotilla to be ready to sail at the top of the tide, in conformity to written orders. You will take us out, Mr Canning. Mr Rees!”

The Commissioned Gunner trotted up to the bridge, carrying something wrapped in canvas.

“A quick rundown on the new Lewises, Mr Rees.”

“Pair of twins, sir, with the new pans. I had hoped for something heavier but anything I could lay my hands on was belt fed. That demands a crew of at least two and would not fit in on the bridge. The Lewises are very similar to the original model, takes two minutes to learn the difference. Higgins has picked it up.”

“Must be simple then, Mr Rees. What are you carrying? That looks like a rifle butt.”

“A Hotchkiss machine gun, sir. French originally, going into production in England at the moment, firing three-o-three rounds. Managed to get hold of a couple through an acquaintance, sir. Longer effective range than the Lewis which might make them come in handy. Higher muzzle velocity. I was thinking of setting their little tripod up on a sort of a pole mounting, hooking them on when wanted, for use against aeroplanes. Could put them up on the Maxim bandstand, sir.”

“Go ahead, Mr Rees. Useful to have some way of irritating those things in the sky. Much in favour, in fact.”

They tied up at the wharf at Dunkerque, much to their pleasure. Anchored or at a buoy in the outer harbour meant it was difficult to get ashore; moored alongside, all hands could be released for a couple of hours at a time.

“There’s a chocolate seller in the market again, sir. Not the same old biddy as ‘twas, sir. Good stuff though.”

“I’ll see what she’s got, Packer. Always pleasant to have a bar of chocolate to chew on in the middle of the night.”

“I got biscuits for the cabin, sir.”

Half a dozen chocolate biscuits on a plate were always welcome when officers came visiting.

As always, Simon spent more than he had intended at the stall, came back telling himself he would get fat. He was of a stocky build naturally, would need little excess to become pudgy. There was almost no chance to exercise aboard ship and it was always tempting to nibble on something during the long nights.

He heard the pipes sound as a senior officer was welcomed aboard, was surprised he had not been warned in advance.

The duty seaman at the brow called quietly to him.

“Captain Campbell-Barnes, sir.”

Captain of Lucifer, junior ship in the half-flotilla.

“’Afternoon, sir. Thought I should speak to you rather than send a signal. Quicker. One of my subs tripped over on deck an hour back. Running, for some reason, and caught his heel in a ringbolt. Hospital says he has broken both bones in the lower leg. On the sick list for months with that.”

“Right, he must be replaced, sooner rather than later. Come with me to Senior Naval Officer, Dunkerque, see what, if anything, he has available.”

There were three monitors and four predreadnought battleships in harbour, part of the bombardment squadron. With their far larger wardrooms it was commonly possible to pull an officer off them to fill a gap. A destroyer had so small a complement that a missing man would affect efficiency; on the big ships, which spent far more hours in port than at sea, one sub would hardly be noticed.

SNO Dunkerque was happy to assist, knowing that Simon was favoured by Commodore Tyrwhitt and had a record of success that reflected favour on Dunkerque as well.

“What do you want? A sublieutenant with a year or two in or a midshipman ready to make his step?”

Simon raised an eyebrow to Campbell-Barnes, left the decision to him.

“A bright young mid would be ideal, sir. Happy to pick up his commission and not had the chance to get into habits of idleness on a big ship like too many subs from the battlewagons.”

“Should be no difficulty, let me see… I have a list somewhere of mids due to make sub, sent in from the Bombardment Squadron. My responsibility these days, don’t send such trivial matters to the Admiralty for a decision in time of war. What have we got? Seven, no less, let’s take a look at their names.”

Campbell-Barnes instantly dismissed a plebian Smith and an appalling Higginthwaite, ended up undecided between a Cavendish and a Watney-Egglinton.

“Damned difficult decision, sir! Cavendish must be related to the Dukes of Devonshire, in the nature of things, while the other must have a daughter of the brewing family and a second or third son of the Earl of Cumberland as parents. No money in the Cumberland family, these days, sir, but a deal of political influence – related to everybody in the Party!”

Even Simon knew that the Watney family had pots of money, controlled half a dozen MPs and possessed a place in Society. The Devonshires were said to own half of Britain and to supply never fewer than a third of every Cabinet of either party. He knew nothing of the Cumberlands.

“A quandary, old chap! No telling what is best for the wardroom. You might enquire which was the better seaman?”

That course had not occurred to Campbell-Barnes.

“I say, sir, what an excellent idea!” He turned to SNO. “Do you know, sir?”

“The boy Watney-whatever is Dartmouth, has been three years a midshipman and only now put up for his commission. Young Cavendish is a wartime entry.”

That seemed decisive. Cavendish might be benefitting from influence pushing him forward early; the other lad was a dullard, one with every advantage and still likely almost the last of his year to be declared ready for his promotion.

“Cavendish it is, sir, if you please.”

“He will be on your deck within the hour, Campbell-Barnes.”

The young captain saluted and left, leaving Simon to shake his head in the company of the Senior Naval Officer.

“Aristocratic purity maintained, it might seem, Sturton.”

“He runs a tight ship, sir. Most junior of my three captains. A long way from least efficient – and the other pair are well better than average. That being the case, I put up with his nonsense, sir.”

“So you must, Sturton. Turning to business, I have seen your orders for tonight, obviously, and I am not sure I like them. Setting up two of the monitors as sitting ducks, if you ask me!”

“I tend to agree, sir. Do we have any indication of what is to hand at Zeebrugge, sir?”

“Aeroplanes went over earlier this week, bombing and reconnaissance. Far more the latter, of course – their little bombs are futile against ships or shore batteries. They saw almost nothing. Small launches and a pair of harbour defence craft carrying maybe a single six inch on something little more than a motorised barge.”

“The launches carrying torpedoes, sir?”

“No. A small gun, a two or three pounder sort of thing. Useful for chasing down small boats trying to make a clandestine landing of spies along the shoreline. It’s my opinion that they are relying on the shore guns for any defence. They are still building more batteries all along the coast. Some of the guns are massive.”

“Makes it impossible to bring an army ashore along the coast, sir, behind the Trenches.”

“I do not think the Army has even considered that course, Sturton. The generals are not very good at thinking about things, you know. Much better at doing, providing somebody else can tell them what.”

“Getting back to the sea, sir, any attack on the bombarding ships will come down the coast. Destroyers, one presumes, to make the speed to reach them.”

“Logical, Sturton. Bigger than your L-Class boats, all of them.”

“Hopefully, not expecting us, sir.”

They shrugged in unison and Simon returned to Lancelot with the intention of sleeping for a couple of hours before they sailed. He would be busy all night, would need to keep alert.

He sat for a few minutes signing the legal documents necessary to break the entail on the Perceval estates, possible only now that he had celebrated his twenty-first birthday, an event he had belatedly recalled as occurring in recent weeks.

His uncle, the current Viscount Perceval intended to place all of his farmland on the market and had little doubt of it selling even in wartime. There were still those members of the House of Lords who firmly believed that the Land was the bulwark of the aristocracy and snapped up any acreage close to their home estates. Even more land-hungry, so Simon had been told, were the newly ennobled, distinguished by their money rather than their blue blood and anxious to make a show of aristocratic probity.

He wished them good luck. Farmland was a burden to the go-ahead, producing small income and vast costs. Wheat for English bread was better grown on the American and Canadian Prairies; beef was cheaper in South America; sheep meat and wool came from South Africa and the Antipodes. The English farmer could not compete against the foreigners and too few were willing to turn their acres to those crops that could be grown at lower cost in Britain. The wise man was the one who washed his hands of agriculture. There was a temporary, wartime upsurge in prices, he had been told; the end of the war would finish that.

The Perceval money would be sensibly invested, he had no doubt, quite possibly guided by the Isaacs interest. His uncle intended to retain a few acres in Kent, little more than a park surrounding the country house he had chosen to create in place of the great mansion down on the borders of Devon and Dorset. That would provide a pleasant location for the family, close, but not too much so, to London. Inevitably, thought of a family led to consideration of his possible, perhaps probable, future wife.

An attractive girl, Alice Parrett, and well bred to the post of a gentleman’s lady. She was not of the aristocracy herself but could step up as easily as he could, possibly more so. Pretty rather than beautiful, with enormous eyes that a man could drown in… Not as bright as Baker’s Primrose Patterson, few were; more intelligent than the average, that was for sure. Add to that, he was increasingly sure he had fallen in love with her, something he had never done before. He was fairly certain she loved him, too. The end of the war or promotion to commander would be time to propose and then a rapid wedding – no point to delaying longer than he must.

“Packer! These to the post, please.”

The legal documents came with their heavy envelope, pre-addressed to his trustees, now his lawyers as he was of age, Aitkens, Aitkens and Trim, one of the leading legal lights of the City, he had discovered.

Packer, who had unearthed the documents and placed them prominent on the desk, said nothing, took them to the ship’s postman to go ashore with his bag before they sailed.

It was too late to sleep, he had taken up one of his two hours on more or less necessary personal business. He stretched his legs as far as the bridge, found Canning there, tacking a chart to the small table available on the larger destroyer.

“Latest minefields, sir. Getting thicker every week. Useful to us, of course. Anything bigger than a gunboat has to stick to the channels if they are within five miles of the shore.”

“Don’t know that I would fancy driving a gunboat in a straight line across a field, Mr Canning.”

“Some of these new boats are said to draw no more than three feet, sir. Very fast with it. A single torpedo or a six pounder or its equivalent and a mass of machine guns, how many unclear. The torpedo boat could be a menace.”

“Don’t see a lot of point to a little gunboat. A six pound shell is too small to do harm to a sloop even. I suppose a flotilla together could be a nuisance, not a lot more than that to us. They would do nothing to a monitor or predreadnought.”

“Designed to kill invasion barges, I suspect, sir. As we don’t intend to invade anything, not a great deal of point to them.”

“Prevents our making a landing behind the Trenches, or so SNO said.”

“Makes sense, sir… Do you think they might be considering the same?”

“I hope so, Number One! Think of the killing we would make between us, the old battleships and the Harwich and Dover Patrols. It would take a lot of submarines and torpedo boats to hold us off.”

The predreadnoughts could use their mass to plough through barges at fifteen knots, perhaps more, ramming some and overturning more in their wake, possibly not needing to fire their twelve inch guns.

“A massacre, sir. The torpedo boats can’t be sufficient escort for a landing.”

Neither chose to speculate further.

“Crew to the Maxim and the Lewises tonight, Number One.”

“Full alert, sir.”

“I think so. Mr Rees!”

The Commissioned Gunner appeared almost immediately, a trick of his, it seemed.

“Some reason to expect small torpedo craft tonight, we are told, Mr Rees.”

“As well to mount the Hotchkisses, sir. They outrange the Lewises, not that that matters too much in the night. Can’t see to aim straight in the darkness. Handy to have extra firepower if anything comes close.”

“Very good. Rifles and revolvers to the deck, I think.”

“Issue revolvers, sir? Selected hands to carry them at their hip. Rifles to stands at the normal locations by the tubes, sir?”

The voice said that was not a question.

“As you think best, Mr Rees.”

The monitors sailed with a pair of old sloops in attendance, their function being to tow the big ships back if it became necessary, as was too frequently the case.

“Bloody monitors, Mr Canning! Built in a hurry with no thought given to their eventual displacement. The engines they installed were far too small.”

“The First Lord had a brainwave, they say, sir, and overcame all opposition to get his pets into service without wasting time on designing them.”

“Bloody Churchill!”

Canning very wisely made no comment.

An hour and the destroyers left harbour on the line for Harwich, turning northeast up the coast only when out of sight of land. Fifteen minutes later a lookout called a seaplane.

“Hands to action stations. Mr Rees! Aeroplane!”

Rees yelled and two of his gunners’ party ran up from below with the Hotchkisses, hidden in the movement of hands to tubes and guns, hopefully unnoticed by the observer in the seaplane. They set up their guns and waited out of sight behind the bandstand that carried the Maxim.

“Mr Higgins! You and four men with rifles to show yourselves on the forecastle.”

The seaplane made its slow way towards them, the observer visible, hanging out of his cockpit with binoculars to his eyes.

There was a large, black Maltese Cross clearly visible on the fuselage.

“Can’t be making fifty knots, sir. What would you say? A thousand feet? A little less?”

“Damned if I know, Mr Canning! How do you estimate height? Mr Rees, fire at will.”

Rees raised a hand to acknowledge the command as the plane turned to come in from off the port bow, taking a close look at the flotilla, losing height to get a better view.

“Distant two cables and at a thousand feet and dropping, Mr Canning.”

“Roughly, sir. We ought to have some sort of aerial rangefinder, sir. Shouldn’t be impossible to bodge something to take a triangle.”

Rees stood and shouted to Higgins to open fire with his rifles, presumably to draw attention away from the midships area where his guns were located. A few seconds and the Hotchkisses fired in bursts of about twenty rounds, tracer giving an aim. The first shots were astern and below the seaplane; after that they hit into the fuselage around the cockpit. They saw the pilot fall to the side.

“It’s going down, sir! Rees has got it!”

“So he has. Close the wreckage when it splashes and launch a boat, Number One. If it floats, salvage it – we can take it home to be examined.”

The aeroplane did not float, going into the sea nose first, dragged under by its heavy engine. The pilot and observer went down with it.

“No reports going home with that one, Number One.”

“Yeoman, make to the half-flotilla, ‘set additional lookouts to watch for aeroplanes’.”

Simon wondered if their gunners had unofficial extras as well.

He went below for a few minutes to make the first notes for his report. ‘Enemy seaplane destroyed by machine gun fire. No survivors. Single engine. Observation machine. No evidence of bombs.’ Short and simple. He added a precise time and position. No need to mention that Lancelot had used unofficial weaponry to make the kill – what Their Lordships did not know about would cause them no anguish.

Returning to the bridge he called for kye; there was a chilly breeze whipping across the North Sea and the watchkeepers would benefit from something hot.

“How are we stocked for additional chocolate and cocoa, Mr Canning?”

“Not much more than official issue, sir. I have been able to accumulate a little in the normal way, putting requisitions into the Stores at Harwich and here in Dunkerque at the same time. They are getting wise to that, sir. The two sets of storekeepers are starting to talk to each other.”

“Pity! Don’t try it again. Too big a risk. I’ll think of something else.”

Simon knew that Canning had only a small private income, insufficient for him to purchase stocks himself. He, on the other hand, had a huge income in Naval terms, could easily afford to do so. It would be wise to find a way to cover his expenditure – the hands should not know that he was spending his own money on their comforts. Even more so for the wardroom – his officers might be humiliated. It should not be too difficult – gifts of various sorts turned up frequently from the various organisations and committees that had formed in almost every town in the country to provide comforts for the troops and sailors. He had heard even of ships being adopted by women’s groups in towns along the coast and a regular trickle of cigarettes and sweets and such turning up.

He made a mental note to talk to his uncle to make the arrangements with a wholesaler in London. A City of London charitable committee could act as cover for a lorryload, a ton and more of the best split between the four destroyers.

“Toffees, Mr Canning! Not just chocolate.”

“Yes, sir. Exactly.”

Captains were never wrong on their own bridge.

“Time to our turning point?”

“Two hours and twenty-three minutes, sir, to reach a position one mile off Dutch waters. Monitors should commence bombardment in two hours and fifteen minutes from now, sir.”

The plan assumed that anything in the German-held harbours would be on one hour’s notice for steam.

“What if they have smaller petrol engined launches and boats, Canning?”

“Could be a problem, sir. To my limited understanding, it is a matter of winding up a starter and then kicking in a clutch, sir. Five minutes at most, not having boilers to bring up to temperature. I think any such would be out of their harbours well before we came along, sir.”

“If they have petrol torpedo boats, then the monitors are in trouble.”

“Or diesel, sir.”

Simon had heard of diesel, was not sure what the difference was between that and petrol. Fortunately, Canning did not know either, was able to avoid being wiser than his captain.

The hot cocoa arrived, delivered to all positions around the small ship and obviously welcome. It was definitely the case that they must have greater stocks than officially issued. Even in the summer months, the sea was chilly at night and a warmer was a pleasant extra, the sort of thing that made the hands feel valued.

“It’s a bribe, perhaps, Canning. Not a bad idea, though. Better than the way the Russians do things!”

There had been a report in the newspapers of a mutiny on a Russian naval vessel and of wholesale floggings and hangings as a response. The Navy had generally felt no more than contempt, for mutineers and the Russian authorities both.

“Very much so, sir. Strange thing is, the Russian Navy seems to be doing well in the Black Sea, despite their peculiar habits. Disaster in the Baltic, of course. I hear a rumour that we are to send submarines into the Baltic, sir.”

“Not with me aboard, Mr Canning! Horrible bloody things! The very idea of going down beneath the surface of the sea, deliberately shutting down a hatch and plunging under! Not for me!”

“No. I doubt I shall be volunteering, sir. I thought about the RNAS last year, when they were calling for bodies. I might like going up in the air. Not under the water, though.”

“I didn’t see the request for men, Mr Canning. Busy on Sheldrake and enjoying myself far too much in any case. Don’t know that I am a bold aviator myself – particularly after the way we dealt with that poor chap earlier.”

“Good point, sir. All very well flapping along at a thousand feet. Bit of a bugger when your wings drop off!”

“Light at twenty degrees, starboard bow!”

The lookout’s call brought them back to business. The Dutch, being neutral, had kept all of their lights and buoys, making navigation easier off their shores.

“Five minutes to our turning point, sir.”

“All hands, Mr Canning.”

Lancelot had been at action stations, all of the crew at their places of duty, but half had been permitted to sit or lay down if there was space, to rest as much as they could. No doubt some few had even managed to sleep, to the admiration of their mates who could not rest in the tense minutes leading up to a night of fighting.

Chapter Four

“What are those, ‘Major?”

“Tin cans, sir. Empty. Condensed milk, the little ones, sir. Bully beef the big. Hang a small one inside a big ‘un, sir, on a bit of string, you might say, and attach them to the wire, a few yards apart, high and low, sir.”

O’Grady displayed the finished product, ready to be strung up. He shook it and achieved a set of melodious chimes.

“Sing low in the wind, so they will, sir. Loud if any mischievous hand should chance to cut the wire in the night, hoping to be silent.”

“That’s clever, ‘Major!”

“Not, I am forced to say, my own invention, sir, though not so well known as yet. I was informed by an acquaintance of the trick. A South African man, sir, who had set tripwires in the war they had there, before your time. He was one of them Boers then, is now a virtuous soldier, so he says.”

“Times change, ‘Major! I had understood the Kaiser to be a friend of the Boers.”

They shook their heads, accepting that politics and statecraft was something beyond their comprehension.

“If he is as good at killing the Hun as his compatriots were at shooting us down in that unfortunate conflict, sir, then he will be very welcome.”

“Agreed, O’Grady! As you say, well before my time, yet all I have ever heard of the Boers said they were hard men to defeat.”

“There are those who will say they were not defeated, sir, not in the field. Their women and children were locked away in the concentration camps where so many died and they were left with no food, no supplies to carry on the fight.”

That aspect of the war had never figured large in the English history books and adventure tales for boys. Richard knew nothing of the camps, suspected it might be wiser to remain ignorant – he still retained a few illusions about his country and wished to keep them. The current war was hard enough without allowing reality to supervene.

“When do you intend to put the bells up, ‘Major?”

“The regular wiring parties can do it, each in their own section over the next few days, sir. I suspect that the Germans will fire on our parties tonight, sir, being somewhat cross after the raids. Better to delay sending out any substantial numbers, sir.”

Both sides put out men to repair breaks in the wire on an almost nightly basis. It was not normally regarded as worthwhile to shoot at the sound of wiring parties, particularly while ammunition was short. When they were feeling bad-tempered, the machine guns would rattle in the night.

“How are we off for flares?”

“Short, sir. Too few to be sending them up for every odd noise, sir. Captain Draper’s Company is very low, sir, for their habit of lighting up every time a rat squeaks in the night.”

“Mr Draper has left us, ‘Major. He has returned to the Hampshires, his own regiment, after lending us the benefit of his experience. I have promoted Mr Caton to acting rank in his place. Lieutenant Orpington is to be his number two. His second lieutenant remains in the company, unless you think I should make a clean sweep?”

“Mr Michaels, sir? A boy with a deal to learn and an amount to forget. He will do, sir. Most likely, that is. Which battalion of the Hampshires has Captain Draper gone to, sir?”

“The 11th, on posting to East Africa and the campaign against Von Lettow-Worbeck in the bush there.”

Sergeant Major O’Grady permitted himself a smile. The East African campaign was already renowned as worse than the Trenches for disease and living. It was unsuccessful as well.

“I might just let the whisper be heard, sir?”

“If you would be so good, ‘Major. Insufficient evidence to place a clever man before a court. He is not to get away with his shyness, even so.”

“The men will be pleased with that, sir. All done on the quiet, no scandal to mar the battalion’s name and the evildoer most thoroughly punished, sir. As good as a book by Mr Dickens, sir!”

Richard had avoided Dickens as far as he could – not a difficult task at Dartmouth. He knew of A Christmas Carol but no more. He was not surprised that O’Grady had read more than him – he was an able man in many ways, especially now that he was on the wagon.

“Must bring a book or two out with me, ‘Major. I do get a little of free time most weeks, might enjoy losing myself in a book, anything to get me away from the Trenches for half an hour!”

“All work and no play, sir – not good for any of us.”

There was no Mess in the lines, nor could there be. Some of the dugouts were a little larger and enabled the officers to form a card school. There were at least two ongoing games of bridge, competition ferocious between the junior officers. Richard suspected there was a poker table as well, the game fashionable in London before the war. He had no objections to bridge, regarded poker as potentially dangerous – the young men were wild, naturally in the circumstances, and might lose sums vastly in excess of their income. He could do little about it, however. He could not join either game, being the merest novice at bridge and forbidden from gambling with his juniors.

“Not too much gaming among the men, I trust, ‘Major?”

“Crown and Anchor is a commonplace, sir. Banned, of course, which means they hide the dice when I come near. Some of the men play pontoon all day, every day, for pennies and the winnings fairly even among them. A couple of solo whist schools, sir, very keen they are, but again, only pennies. No cardsharps that I have heard of, sir. Other than that, the odd wagers you hear of, sir – men betting how many they can pick off with their rifles in a week, that sort of thing.”

“Sharpshooters? Have you picked out our snipers yet?”

“Just the one lad who might be sufficient of a shot, sir. I do not know he has the mind for killing, sir. It takes a strange sort to be a sniper, sat up and looking to kill all day, every day. I am thinking we may have to do without a battalion sniper as such until a new body comes in.”

“Pity. If there should ever be an attack on our lines, a sniper can be handy.”

“Word is of the opposite, sir. Likely to be us marching shoulder to shoulder off to kill the foe, sir. Provided we can pass through the wire.”

Richard shrugged.

“Depends on the artillery, sir. If they bombard and it is sufficient, then we pass through the gaps they have cut. If not, then it is to be Neuve Chapelle all over again.”

That did not lie in their hands. They could only hope.

Richard slept badly that night, waking every few minutes to artillery fire coming onto targets in no man’s land. He gave up and walked up to the first line of trenches two hours before dawn.

“’Morning, Harris. What’s up?”

“Hun’s having a panic, sir. Wetting his knickers! Calling down artillery every time a sentry sees a shadow by the looks of it. They didn’t like your raids, sir!”

Captain Harris was young and determined in his hero-worship.

“Where are they dropping their shells?”

“Just this side of their own wire, sir. A few overs closer to us – we will be out making repairs later in the week, by the looks of it.”

“No concerted attempt to cut our wire?”

“No, sir. Just the occasional small shell falling into the wire. Nothing into our trench, sir.”

“Fire a flare. Let’s take a quick look at what’s going on.”

The short lived bright white light showed nothing, no signs of raiders coming in retaliation.

“I wonder why not, Harris. We killed and wounded anything up to sixty of theirs last night. Not like the Hun to sit back and take whatever we throw at them… Pass the word, Harris. No dawn stand-to this morning. Wouldn’t mind betting we get a concentrated bombardment on the trench just when they would expect all the men to be out of the dugouts. It’s what I might do, anyway.”

If that was the case, it was a near-certainty as far as Harris was concerned. He sent the message out by his runners, down the trench on either side.

“A minimum of sentries and an officer to each company to be at the lip of the trench, close to a dugout. The men to be ready to come out if necessary. Heads down away from the entrances.”

A cloudy morning delaying the dawn and then heavy gunfire from behind the German lines.

“Get down!”

Ten minutes of concentrated barrage from several batteries of medium guns and field artillery, landing in and around the first line, almost no unders and only a few over.

“Good shooting, Harris!”

“Nothing bigger than a hundred pounds, I would say, sir. Mostly far lighter.”

Richard agreed.

“One battery of five or six medium guns. The rest three inch field artillery. Their seventy-sixes, I think. Divisional artillery, not Corps or Army.”

A single battery began to respond from their rear.

“Eighteen pounders attempting counter-battery fire. If we have a balloon up for observation, it might be successful. Not otherwise.”

“I have heard that they are experimenting with aeroplanes, sir. Using them to observe for artillery. Using signalling lamps, like the Navy does.”

“Could work…”

They were interrupted by a shell landing feet away from the entrance to the dugout, the noise almost deafening.

“Lucky one, Harris! A little closer and we would have taken the blast through the doorway.”

“Two feet between earache and the Pearly Gates, sir!”

Richard laughed. It seemed an apposite comment.

“Coming to an end, I think, Harris. Time to poke our noses outside, see what is happening.”

The trench itself had taken some damage – the men would be digging for much of the day to rebuild parapets and walls and replace duckboards.

“The buggers hit the sump, sir! Pump’s a goner! We will be flooded out before the end of the day if it starts to rain.”

“Bloody nuisance that will be. Is the telephone intact?”

Quick examination said that the wire was cut, would have to be replaced.

“I’ll go back to my own dugout and start the ball rolling. What of casualties?”

Ten minutes loud noise and the expenditure of thousands of pounds on high explosive had left one man with a cut arm from flying debris. The dugouts were effective protection, provided the men were inside them.

“Hawkeswill! We need a pump for Harris’ company, quick time. Smashed by a shell. What’s the word from other companies?”

“Major Vokes is putting the list together, sir. All minor. E Company lost most of their duckboards. Looks as if they had been repaired previously and the whole lot fell to bits, sir.”

“Put in the requisition. Urgent – they can’t be left to wade in the mud and crap under the walkways.”

“Yes, sir. Brigade calling, sir.”

Richard took the telephone.

“Just a Hate, sir. Retaliation for the raids, I suspect. I cancelled stand-to this morning in case. We took almost no casualties as a result. Need a water-pump and two hundred yards of duckboards, sir. That’s at six feet wide. Six hundred boards, sir.”

Braithwaite might not have been capable of calculating to such complexity.

“Lost some of the ready ammunition stores, sir. We could use three-o-three rounds and flares, sir. A replacement supply of Mills Bombs as well.”

It would be difficult to prove Richard a liar. A worthwhile risk to take as their stores were lower than he liked. Half a million rounds would be very welcome; a few Mills Bombs would be a pleasant extra.

Braithwaite confirmed that Draper had been put aboard his train and would be in company all the way to Marseille and onto the ship there. There would be no mistaken turns, no getting lost for that gentleman.

“Strange, sir. He was peacetime Army. Why does a man join up if he is yellow?”

“Pleasant life except in time of war, Baker. He was Sandhurst in ’02 or ’03 and then joined the battalion in barracks at Winchester and eleven or twelve years of drill and parades. Infantry, so he would not even be expected to go out hunting in winter. Three out of four weekends in London, in the clubs and theatres and bars and other places – back midday Monday, off Friday morning. A quiet, comfortable life for a single man with an income of his own, the Army a social club as much as anything. Always possible to duck out of an overseas posting – a staff course would do for that. No reason to suppose that his life would ever see danger, then the Kaiser chose to start a bloody war! Even then, he almost managed to dodge the column.”

It was peculiar, Richard thought, went a long way to explaining the attitude of the older officers, the faint air of resentment with which they greeted action at the front. It was not what they had signed up for, though the overwhelming majority responded well to the demands of war.

“Got three wagon loads of blankets for your battalion, just turned up. My people know nothing about them…”

“Cold in the dugouts, sir. Can’t have coke fires in enclosed spaces without killing off the men.”

“I won’t ask how, Baker. They will be on their way up to you within a few minutes.”

The wagons arrived, were rapidly unloaded and counted.

“Two apiece, ‘Major.”

“Yes, sir. Done well by us, so he has, sir. You will note the quality?”

There was no broad arrow on the blankets. They were not War Department issue.

“Thick. Warm and heavy. Meant for a hotel, not for the army?”

“Yes, sir. The woollen mills must still be sending stuff overseas to meet pre-war contracts. They need to earn money, after all. Always the case that English woollens are the best you can buy, sir.”

“Get them issued, quick time, ‘Major. The sooner they are out of sight, the better.”

Carrying parties came from each company, ran back yelling to their mates.

“A few spare, sir?”

“Aid post?”

“Already assigned, sir.”

“Then spread them around the officers, ‘Major. The youngsters especially, those who can’t afford to buy their own comforts.”

O’Grady nodded and set about the task.

“What of yourself, sir?”

“Speak to Paisley. He should have me looked after from my own pocket. Not for me to be dipping my hands in the men’s issue, ‘Major.”

The words were heard and passed on. The Colonel had not taken a one of the blankets, all had gone to the battalion. It all added to their fighting spirit, their willingness to stand for the Regiment. They were special – their officers were better than the poor sods had in other battalions along the line.

The mail arrived, in good time for once, letters for the bulk of the men, very few of them completely alone. Richard sat down to a long missive from Primrose, the entirety adding up to very little – she missed him, hoped he was well, knew that was silly. She had met a Lieutenant Commander Adams recently, believed him to be the man he and his friend Sturton had mentioned as having ‘put up a black’; he was evidently rehabilitated. They had danced and he had mentioned that he would leave the Navy when the war ended; definitely no longer the golden boy. That apart, his father had written her to say that he had purchased a house not so far from Wells-Next-The-Sea with some gardens and a little boathouse of its own; she hoped they would like it.

It was all very domestic and unimportant – a pleasant change from the lines. He waited for the first officer to come knocking at the dugout door. Letters from home were not all enjoyable.

“Come in Caton. What is it?”

“Smith Three, sir. His wife run off with a millhand, earning five times as much as a soldier. Left their two children, four and six year olds, with his mother and her at her wits end to deal with them.”

“What can he do if he goes home for a week, Caton?”

“He doesn’t know, sir. He can’t do anything while he is here. Find his wife and speak to her, I suppose – she can’t have gone far.”

“And likely end up before the beak for bashing her, Caton. No. He stays, I am afraid. Besides, she was obviously just waiting for him to go overseas; she has hardly had time to meet a new lover in the few days we have been out.”

The cases trickled in through the morning. Richard sent one man home for seven days, his father on his deathbed, a chance to see him a last time. The remainder stayed with their miseries.

“The hard part of soldiering, Hawkeswill. Most of the men have only been out for three weeks. Six months at least before they can hope to see a week at home.”

“More like to be a year, sir. The Army is not enthused by the idea of leave. Takes up space on transport that can be better used.”

It was almost cruel.

“War is not in the way of being easy, sir. At least, not as bad as being in South Africa or India. Leave was impossible there. China Station even worse, of course. Something like four battalions in Hong Kong and along the coast and they will be at least five years away from home, possibly longer.”

“Trouble is, Flanders being just a day’s travel away from home, the men feel it ought to be possible, sir.”

There was nothing to be done, regrettably.

The replacement ammunition arrived together with boxes of two hundred flares; it was pleasant to be the Brigadier’s favourites. There was an immediate problem of storage, there being too little space in the dugouts for the mass of rounds.

“Issue an extra fifty thousand rounds to each company, ‘Major. Where they put them is their problem.”

“Yes, sir. The duckboards have arrived, sir. So have six new water pumps.”

There was a strong chance that the Brigadier had written down the wrong figures when taking Richard’s telephone message.

“Right! Put them to use. Under no circumstances are they to go back as surplus to requirement. Which company has the lowest section of trench?”

“D and E together, sir. A clear two foot lower than the remainder, sir. Always a problem with water running down on them.”

“Right. Defaulters to dig new sumps. Big ones. Two pumps to each. The other pair to go to Mr Caton.”

There were always a few men who had committed minor crimes punishable by hours of labour. Now, instead of carrying from the rear at night, they would be given shovels and wheelbarrows.

Richard was if anything glad of the extra labour demanded of the battalion. Too much of trench life was spent in idleness, the men with nothing to do other than sit and wait and drink tea and, inevitably, find mischief to get up to. Now they would at least be tired enough to sleep well, provided the night was not too noisy.

He was called away to Brigade next morning, an orders meeting in addition to the ordinary weekly conference. He took Hawkeswill with him as there would undoubtedly be a mass of paperwork to deal with.

“Baker! Good to see you again. Major Dorrington from the Staff with orders for the next big push.”

There were four other infantry colonels present and two cavalrymen and a single gunner.

Dorrington took the stand in the largest room of the small chateau Braithwaite had appropriated.

“Third Battle of Arras, gentlemen. This one to be more successful than the previous two. Our assault will be unexpected for its timing – late in the year as it is. The BEF is to aim towards Loos, will take the town and open the way forward for the cavalry. All simple and straightforward. In this sector, there will be a bombardment of fifteen hours duration by four batteries of sixty pounders and six of eighteen. A mixture of HE and shrapnel to cut the wire. Guns will register on the day prior to the assault. Take the forward trench and do not delay, gentlemen, quickly into the second line and the communications trenches. Open the way for your supporting horse and their batteries of RHA with their thirteen pounders. You will take off at 0700 hours and will be in the German rear trenches by 0725, the cavalry coming through at that time. Full packs and eighty rounds, the men to maintain a proper order in the advance.”

That seemed to be the end of the briefing.

“Will there be machine gun support, Major?”

“No, Colonel Baker. The extra guns will be massed towards the main assault. Yours is somewhat of a sideshow to tidy up and prevent German reserve troops from interfering from positions to the west.”

“An additional supply of Mills Bombs, perhaps?”

“No. The General does not approve of grenades. Cold steel is all that British troops require. Ensure that all bayonets are well sharpened.”

Braithwaite shook his head as Richard prepared his answer. He was right – there was no point to arguing.

“What reserves are there, Major?”

“None in this sector, Colonel Baker. They will not be needed. The cavalry will roll up anything the Germans have waiting. You are fortunate to have two regiments of heavy dragoons assigned, sir.”

“Very good, Major. How are they to cross the trench, sir?”

“Deal with that when the time comes, Colonel. It will be obvious. They are used to hunting, don’t you know.”

Presumably they were to jump. Richard wished them luck.

Braithwaite took over.

“There will be additional rations, to allow for the first two or three days of open warfare that will follow on the breach of the German lines. It is vital, of course, to push on as hard as can be and mop up behind the cavalry before the broken remnants can reform. Arrangements are being made for prisoner of war cages in the rear areas. Other than that, maintain close order and keep the men together.”

The written orders stipulated a march pace of three miles an hour, the men to hold in their lines, shoulder to shoulder, lieutenants to mark the pace and hold the line, exactly as at Neuve Chapelle.

Dorrington left to carry his glad news to another brigade and Richard turned to Braithwaite in dismay.

“Nothing has changed, sir. We will lose a quarter of the men if everything goes well. Fifteen hours of bombardment is insufficient to flatten all of the wire and destroy the machine guns and field artillery. Only small guns available to us, as well.”

“The big howitzers are being kept back for the main thrust in the centre, Baker. They are short of rounds for them so they will join in the last two hours of the barrage there.”

“Even an hour with a pair of nine point twos would do us some good, sir. Landing on the wire apron, the big shells would cut us a passage. Sixty pound shells won’t do the job.”

“That’s your naval background, Baker. You know about such things. Still, come and talk to the artillery.”

Richard was introduced to the major who had attended the meeting.

“Ten batteries, Major, for fifteen hours?”

“Not quite, Colonel. The eighteen pounders will maintain fire. We are short of shells for the sixties. They will fire for the first two hours, targeted specifically at the wire. After that, their fire will be more sporadic. They will join in for the last half an hour of rapid fire. We have aeroplanes promised to spot for us, provided the Fokkers don’t get them.”

“Observation balloons?”

“Not in this sector, Colonel. We only have a few as yet. There are more coming, we are told. More likely for next year. They hope they will not be necessary, of course.”

The cavalry stayed for lunch; they had nothing sensible to say.

“Should be jolly good sport, old chap. Done nothing since we came out in January. Make a change from parading in the rear, don’t you think?”

Richard shook his head. He feared not.

“If the machine guns are silenced, then you may do well, gentlemen. Even then, rifle fire can cut horse up severely. Saw it in August and September last year when the cavalry was butchered, British and German equally. Did some of the butchering myself.”

“Different conditions, I expect, old chap.”

That was as meaningless an answer as was possible; it was profound for a cavalryman.

The infantry remained a few minutes after the cavalry and gunner had ridden off.

Braithwaite saw them off to their battalions.

“There are Mills Bombs held in the rear, gentlemen. General French does not approve of them. I gather they are ‘unsporting’. I shall do my best to have an issue made.”

There was no more to be said.

Richard called his captains together. There was just sufficient room in his dugout for them all to fit in.

“There will be a bombardment commencing at 1600 hours on the day after tomorrow. It will go on, sporadically, until 0700 hours on the following morning. We will then go over the top. Marching in line with full pack and eighty rounds. Keep the weight in the packs down, gentlemen. No rations, no spare boots. Leave the blankets behind. If we succeed in breaking the lines, I shall send fatigue parties back for the necessaries for a marching campaign. Packs may be made up with extra rounds and Mills Bombs, if they are delivered. Men are to drop their packs before entering the enemy trenches. Again, they can be recovered afterwards. Lewis Gunners to the fore. I am aware that General French does not like to see them, for being untidy. They will nonetheless be used.”

“What if the wire is not cut, sir?”

“If there are machine guns active, drop flat and retire. In the absence of machine guns, you will cut the wire. The gunners assured me they would concentrate their fire on the wire. They are to have aerial spotters to assist them. You will not be able to observe their progress during the night, unfortunately.”

They said nothing.

“We are fortunate in having so small a no man’s land to our front. That also means we are close to the detonation point of our own artillery. It seems wise to me that the bulk of each company will spend the period of the bombardment in our second line, leaving only a small party by the field telephone. We can reasonably assume there will be no enemy attack through the bombardment.”

None of them trusted the accuracy of the artillery sufficiently to argue.

“We shall man the front line fully at 0650 and go over the top to the second of 0700 hours. I shall accompany Captain Caton. Major Vokes will hold two companies to the rear and will bring them forward to any point where we have made a breakthrough, hopefully to pass them through the lines and into the enemy rear. The cavalry and RHA will pass through at that point.”

“In the absence of a breakthrough, sir?”

“Then you may cover us as we fall back, Vokes.”

“You mentioned Royal Horse Artillery batteries in company with the cavalry, sir. Will they take part in the bombardment?”

“Doubtful. Too small to be a great deal of value, in any case.”

Richard tried to sum up on a more cheerful note.

“I do much hope that we may be able to take the opposing front line and at least even out this damned salient. The German trench is slightly higher than ours and will be more comfortable in many ways. If they have anything of interest to us, try to bring it back – new guns, mortars, that sort of thing.”

The bombardment commenced and the bulk of the battalion fell back from the first line of trenches, wisely, it transpired. A number of shells fell in their own wire, more during the night as barrels wore and sighting became less accurate.

“Are they cutting the wire?”

Richard was interested to know what they might face in the morning. Major Vokes had spent some time to the front, trying to get a picture from the little he could see in the shell flashes.

“HE are effective, sir. Even the small shells cut wire and throw it back a distance. Shrapnel is valueless for wire, sir. A break at the point of the explosion and that is all. Generally speaking, shrapnel leaves a small crater under mostly unbroken wire.”

“Note that for our reports after the offensive, Vokes. That, of course, assumes we are here to write such reports.”

“I shall leave my clerks in their dugout, sir. They can maintain a diary.”

“Famous last words and all that… I do hope I am being unnecessarily gloomy, Vokes.”

“It is still a learning process, sir. The generals have to find out exactly how to break through modern trenches.”

“Simplicity itself, Vokes! Land an army on the Friesian coast, north of Holland. The Navy would lose a few of its tin castles to submarines and mines; the German army would be forced to withdraw troops from France and Russia to set up new defences. Thin them out here and we could probably make a breakthrough. The Russians might be able to do the same. A chance that Denmark might join in to grab back Schleswig and Holstein. The Dutch might jump in on the winning side. A good possibility that Austria-Hungary might seek a separate ceasefire.”

Vokes admitted that to be possible.

“It all falls down because of the dreadnoughts, sir. They cost too much. The government won’t risk seeing them sunk – they are too valuable to send them out to war. Too many millions invested in the battleships to wish to risk them in combat, sir.”

“Better far they should grow rust at Scapa Flow than venture out into the North Sea, Vokes? You are likely right. Too much myth and insufficient reality, today’s Navy! Glad I got out.”

“So are we, sir. Their loss has been very much our gain.”

Another hero-worshipper! Richard had thought better of Vokes.

He glanced at his watch. Another fifteen minutes. The bombardment was supposed to lift for the last quarter of an hour, to move forward from the pulverised wire and zero onto the German front trench. He gave the artillery five minutes of leeway – gunners not being the brightest of mortals and not necessarily able to read their watches – and ordered the battalion back into the front line. He accompanied Captain Caton, trying to get a feel for his company, wondering how much damage Draper had done to it.

“Had a word with young Michaels last night, sir. Told him that he would not be held back, not tarnished by Draper, you might say.”

“What’s your opinion of the boy?”

“He’ll do, sir. Mind you, he’ll quite likely die today, trying to prove that he’s not chicken.”

“Almost inevitable. A pity I could not take the risk of keeping Draper, you know. I might have enjoyed forcing him to march in front of me today.”

“At the point of your revolver, that would have been, sir, after you had dragged him out of the aid post where he had gone suffering from a heart attack.”

“I seem to have been last man in the battalion to have heard of Draper’s little problem, Caton.”

“Who is to come to you snitching on a fellow officer, sir? The most one could do would be to suggest you might accompany him one night, as you did, in fact.”

The informer was not a well-loved soul in any company, Richard admitted.

“Wire parties forward.”

The gaps in their own wire were pulled open. Stray shells had cut several others, would speed the process of getting forward.

“All done, sir.”

“Thank you, Hawkeswill.”

The adjutant had asked for the duty, saying that he wanted to take some part in the battle, he was not that old. Richard still did not like the man, while admitting that he had shown useful finally.

“Ladders forward.”

The short ladders were fixed in place so that the men could climb the six feet out of the trench, burdened by their packs.

“Now, Major Vokes.”

Vokes blew on the big brass whistle, an ‘Acme Thunderer’, beloved of games teachers and sports coaches and now put to less innocent use.

The first line of men formed up shoulder to shoulder and plodded forward into a desultory crackle of rifle fire. A few fell.

“No machine guns, sir.”

Richard led the second line, ten yards behind the first, listening to the yells of the lieutenants as they kept the men straight.

“Wire is cut in places, sir. Some gaps all the way to the trenchline.”

“Drop packs and run! Lewises forward!”

Two minutes and they had the front line, were pushing down the communications trenches towards the rear. Ten minutes and they had taken the first two lines of trenches and were meeting organised resistance for the first time. Machine guns began to fire and light artillery, pompoms and mortars, opened up on them.

The advance stalled as men took cover and began to return fire with rifles and Lewises.

“Fire coming in from the flank, sir. To the left.”

“Take care of it, Vokes. If needs be, set up a line back to our trenches. Cavalry should be due within minutes.”

“They won’t be able to cross our trenches, sir.”

“The word I used was ‘due’, Vokes. That doesn’t mean I expect to see them.”

Vokes laughed and moved off to the left.

“Caton, set your company to reversing the fire step here. We will hold here until we receive artillery support.”

Caton scurried into action, setting the company into position on a cobbled together step.

“Hawkeswill, go back and try to get hold of the RHA. Even their little guns will do some good, firing from just behind our second line; they will be able to get their trails down there.”

Half an hour and there was no sign of the cavalry. A runner came from Brigade.

“Beg pardon, sir. Why have you stopped?”

“A concentration of machine guns and light artillery. Inform the Brigadier that I am trying to bring the RHA up in support, expect to advance under cover of their fire.”

Nothing happened for an hour other than the fire to their front increasing as extra machine guns were fed in from the German rear.

Hawkeswill appeared with a party carrying the battalion’s two Vickers.

“RHA are held back with the cavalry, sir. Their people will not permit them to move forward. Thought our machine guns would be useful.”

“Very much so, Hawkeswill. Well done! ‘Major O’Grady!”

A reply came from close behind his shoulder.

“I will be setting them up, sir. Mr Michaels has just gone forward, sir, with four men carrying Mills Bombs. The young gentleman said he could see a communications trench running at the diagonal which might bring them within reach of the light artillery, sir. Needed to be doing something, so he did, sir, for not liking what was being said about Captain Draper and the whole company tarnished by him.”

“Pity! Still, only a second lieutenant and there are plenty more of them to hand.”

“Four good riflemen, sir. He picked the best.”

The men could less easily be afforded – it took years to train up a rifleman and the battalion had too few of the old, experienced soldiers.

“Get the men busy on digging in, ‘Major. We are here until we get support. No going forward into the fire ahead of us.”

O’Grady left about his business. The Vickers began to fire inside twenty minutes.

Richard wriggled his way up the rear side of the German second line trench, which was as deep and well constructed as their own front line had been, and tried to see what was happening, to establish a clear picture.

It looked likely that the Germans had built a number, six or seven the men thought, of concrete bunkers to the rear of their lines, for the safer storage of artillery rounds perhaps or as a defence in depth. They were being held strongly and were proof against rifle fire. A battery of sixty pounders with their spotters up front might be able to destroy the bunkers, one by one. The big howitzers could certainly do so, provided they had the ammunition supplies. There were machine guns in nests in and around the bunkers and small guns, something like a two pounder pompom, set up nearby. A rifle battalion had nothing to say to that defence.

“Hold here, Caton. Where’s my runner?”

One of the younger soldiers stepped forward.

“Here, sir.”

“To Major Vokes. He is to bring his two companies forward, left and right, to establish a line. We will not be advancing beyond this position.”

“Yes, sir. Make a line, sir, back from here to our old trench, holding both sides, sir.”

“That’s right. Off you go.”

The boy ran.

“Caton, pass the word to pick up the packs. Men to dig in. Get me a list of the figures for the morning.”

An hour and Richard had a mug of tea in his hand and was reading the reports from the eight companies that had made the first advance.

“Lost forty-five men dead and thirty more severely wounded. Fifty-three walking wounded, most of whom remain in the line. One man in every seven for the battalion as a whole. Far better than Neuve Chapelle and we have actually advanced two hundred yards. What’s the position to the left and right?”

Hawkeswill answered. He had chosen not to return to the rear, it seemed.

“No advance to our left, the north, that is, sir. Battalion to our right has paralleled us. The salient has in effect become a dogleg in the line, sir. Likely to take fire from two sides, sir.”

“Get a written message to Brigade to that effect, Hawkeswill. Draw a little map to go with it, so they can understand what we mean. Suggest strongly that the battalion to our left must push forward. If they don’t, we will be shot to pieces in short time. Has anybody information on Mr Michaels?”

Word came that Michaels had made his attack, the little party going out an hour previously. Nothing had been seen of him since.

Captain Caton slid down from the lip of the trench where he had been laid flat with a pair of binoculars.

“Two of the seven bunkers have been silenced, sir. Explosions in both. Possible that Mills Bombs detonated ready use ammunition, sir. No sign of Michaels returning.”

That left five still active and certainly alert to attack by small parties of bombers. There was little probable gain to sending out more men in daylight.

“Might be a chance of getting into them tonight, Caton?”

“There was wire going up around them, sir.”

“Forget it. Anything else is up to Brigade.”

Chapter Five

“Nothing, sir. Sea is empty.”

Simon glumly agreed. The pair of monitors were merrily battering at the Belgian coast, their twelve inch guns making a vast noise and jetting out huge plumes of flame from their muzzles, announcing their position to any interested sailorman, and nobody was coming to the party.

“Battery fire from the shore, sir.”

They watched as shells burst on the sea, the nearest half a mile wide and over their target. Firing at muzzle flashes was a futile exercise for the most experienced gunners. The shore batteries had been installed in the past few weeks, were still learning their trade.

“Big guns, Canning.”

“Must be a fifteen inch or close to, sir. Damned near a ton of shell. One hit and any ship will be in trouble.”

There was no gain to heaving to and watching the fireworks.

“We might have overrun the response, Canning. Possible that they had nothing ready to sail… Unlikely. Better we should find out. Reverse course. Signal the half-flotilla to follow in line astern through the inshore channel.”

The signal was made and the four destroyers threaded their way along the narrow passage between the minefields and the shore, heading northeast, back towards the Dutch border.

Two hours at slow speed and they had seen nothing. Simon was about to give up, to take the half-flotilla out through the nearest gap in the minefields and return to Dunkerque.

“Ships, sir. Inshore. Small. Heading towards, sir. Starboard bow.”

The lookout’s report was more detailed than normal, showed he thought his sighting was out of the ordinary.

Simon stared, could see nothing for sure. Little point to using the binoculars at night, particularly on this stretch of coast which had low cliffs, just sufficient for a ship to be lost against. If there was anything there, and he believed his lookout, they would be beyond reach of the searchlight. It was reasonable to expect that they would have seen the destroyers, larger than them, first.

“Small and coming towards the action, Mr Canning… Why? Signal the other ships.”

The Yeoman ran to the stern with a small electric lantern, shaded on three sides, flashed a brief message. It was reasonable to assume the enemy would not have seen the light, might be unaware that they had been spotted.

“Come a point to port, Coxswain. Open the guns. Distance to minefield, Mr Canning?”

Simon had noticed that he became more formal going into action; he had never asked himself why.

“Four cables, sir.”

Simon leant to the engineroom voicepipe.

“Mr Malcolm. We have enemy in sight and I may call for everything you have at any moment.”

With the best will in the world, it was not possible to accelerate from a four knot crawl to full speed in seconds. Both men knew that fact.

“Aye aye, sir.”

The brief acknowledgement gave Malcolm’s opinion of the order. Simon had no understanding of the engineroom, trusted that Malcolm would do his best, while not entirely knowing what that best might be.

“Mr Canning, if they have seen us and are still heading in this direction, it must be with the intention of attacking. Assume torpedo boats with internal combustion engines, far greater ability to increase speed quickly. Machine guns at the ready. Star shell to after and midships four inch. Rifles ready.”

Canning called the orders to Mr Rees, waited for confirmation.

“Ready, sir.”

“Good. Yeoman, signal flotilla to reduce to steerage way, to drop back by at least four cables, ready for action. Fire only after Lancelot.”

They waited, watching.

“Possible they have only seen Lancelot, Mr Canning. Might be they have it in mind to capture a destroyer. It would look good in the neutral newspapers – a British destroyer taken into a German-held port.”

They held course for another two anxious minutes before the lookouts called.

“Small craft turning towards, sir. Increasing speed.”

“Star shell, Mr Rees! Open fire. Full speed, Mr Malcolm. Coxswain, steer us towards the action.”

That said, Simon had done all he could for the moment. He had given the orders and it was up to the specialists to carry them out.

The star shell gave its flickering light, showed a mob, twelve at least, of small, fast motorboats heading in towards them. They seemed to be of the same model, wooden built forty footers, decked over with an inboard motor. Each had a tiny open bridge. The boats opened fire with light cannon or pompoms and machine guns.

“Gunboats, sir. No torpedoes.”

“Signal flotilla to close action, open fire. Searchlight.”

The leading boats were inside the range of the searchlight, were set up perfectly for the four inch quickfirers of the other three destroyers. The motorboats were lost in a mass of splashes, the scarlet of hits showing frequently in the spray.

“The biters bit, sir. They thought to run an ambush on us and had the tables turned!”

“One of them made it through, Number One, heading directly towards us.”

“Turning away now, sir. It’s escaping not attacking.”

“Coming close, Mr Canning!”

The helmsman of the motorboat was more concerned with the shellfire behind him than with watching ahead. He saw Lancelot almost too late, put on full rudder and passed down the side, bows to stern, throttling down, less than a fathom distant. Higgins was at the bows with his party of rifles, saw the boat almost directly underneath him.

“Jesus, sir! That bloody young fool has jumped aboard her!”

The twin-Lewises fired a short burst.

“Mr Higgins has got the wheel, sir. We put down the pair of Huns on the stern gun, sir!”

They watched in silent amaze as Higgins brought the motorboat round in an unsteady circle and tried to come alongside. The Coxswain swore and did his best to make a lee while Simon yelled down the voicepipe for steerage way.

Five frantic minutes and they had the boat secured and four men under a petty officer aboard her.

Simon leant over the bridge, shouted to the boat.

“PO! Take her into Dunkirk under her own power. Can do?”

“An engineroom hand would be useful, sir. We have two wounded prisoners, sir.”

Two more minutes and Malcolm himself ran up on deck.

“Only man who’s ever handled a petrol engine, sir.”

“Take her in, Chief.”

Simon had no fears for his engineroom in Malcolm’s absence. He was certain Malcolm would have trained up two men, either able to take his place if he fell to a stray bullet or had a heart attack.

“Mr Higgins! To the bridge!”

Simon managed a full-throated Atlantic gale roar, probably heard clearly on the Belgian coast.

Canning interrupted him before he could deal with his errant sublieutenant.

“Lightning reports two unwounded survivors, sir. Four bodies picked up. Congratulations on Lancelot’s capture. Lynx and Lucifer have a wounded man apiece and add their plaudits.”

Simon was deflated. He could not hang Higgins out to dry, much as he wanted to. The boy had committed an act of gallantry, the bloody young fool, and must be congratulated. They had captured a new motorboat, fresh off the stocks, and Naval Intelligence would be delighted. Their Lordships must be pleased as well, to discover exactly what had been up the Hun’s sleeve.

Higgins limped onto the bridge.

“Beg pardon, sir. Cut my leg a bit when I landed. Right on top of a machine gun and it had sharp bits somewhere. Might have been its crew, sir. They were underneath me and stayed down when I kicked them and jumped up and down a bit. I shot two men on the bridge, sir. With my revolver. The Lewises killed two, sir, and the man in the engineroom gave up. The gun at the fore, sir, a pompom, two pounder, I think, was unmanned when I got there. Hit by shell splinters, I think, judging from the state of the deck. The men blown overboard.”

“Well done, Higgins. You seized the opportunity, it would seem.”

“Thank you, sir. I just thought, sir, ‘what would Captain Sturton do’, and jumped.”

SNO Dunkerque was delighted.

“Captured a German boat, Sturton! Just what I would have expected of your ship. Well done indeed. Sunk a whole flotilla of new motorboats between you and brought one back for us to inspect. She’s just small enough to go up on the davits of one of the predreadnoughts in place of the steam picket boat. Take her back to Chatham or Portsmouth safely that way. The Naval Constructor’s people have already been on the wireless. We’ll have her in a dockyard before tomorrow morning. Prisoners as well. One of them an officer, probably in command of them all. Might be able to find out what they thought they were doing.”

An hour and SNO was aboard Lancelot to congratulate Higgins and to inform Simon that they had found written orders tucked away in a little chart table in the bridge.

“Monitors are always accompanied by small craft, sloops or tugs. The motorboats were to sink or take them. If they were lucky enough to find them towing the monitor – not an uncommon event by their observation – they might be so fortunate as to run it aground. Whatever, it would be a feather in their caps.”

“Damned embarrassing for us if they had succeeded. A good thing you had an escort out, sir.”

SNO was much convinced of his own wisdom, had to admit that the plan had originated with Commodore Tyrwhitt.

“With my full support, of course, Sturton.”

“Of course, sir. What do we do with Higgins now?”

There was a deep belly-laugh in response. SNO had met Higgins and had discussed him with Simon, knew his capabilities.

“We, Sturton? You are his captain, are you not? It is up to you to make the appropriate recommendations – and I wish you the best of luck!”

“So be it, sir. I shall have my written report to you within the hour. I am waiting on Lightning, Lynx and Lucifer for theirs to include, sir. Good shooting on their part. Sunk eleven boats between them. Small fast targets illuminated by star shell and a single weak searchlight. I am very pleased with them, sir.”

“Their captains could go to bigger boats, do you think, Sturton?”

“All three are well capable of commanding a bigger destroyer, or of taking their own half-flotilla.”

“Noted. I shall pass the word up the line. What do you intend to recommend for Higgins?”

“DSC in recognition of the bravery of his act. I do not think he is ready to be made full lieutenant yet, but there may be no choice in that. They are talking of Coastal Motorboats, I believe. Some of them gunboats, others with a torpedo. Give him one of those and set him to patrolling the coast somewhere. Every chance that he might slip a tinfish into something worthwhile. An equal likelihood that he will not come home one night for taking too many chances, probably without realising that he’s doing so.”

“Three man crew, I believe. Captain, gunner and mechanic. The torpedo boats will carry a single eighteen inch in a trough to the stern. Line up the boat, dump the torpedo in its wake and turn away fast. Easy to aim. They will carry a Vickers, maybe a twin, if they can work out how to arrange that with the belt feed.”

Simon thought for a moment, decided that could not be done.

“Need a three man crew at least. Twin Lewises work, being pan-fed; Vickers won’t. These new Hotchkisses might. What would the gunboats carry?”

“Being argued just now. They would be a bit bigger than the torpedo boats and have more in the crew. A six pounder QF to the stern and a pair of machine guns was the most likely suggestion.”

“What do you do with it, sir?”

“Shoot up small torpedo boats at close range. Make a nuisance of oneself in and around small harbours. Pretty bloody useless, in fact, but they sound good.”

“Like too much of this war, sir.”

The Senior Naval Officer had not reached his eminence by criticising his elders. He backed away from any disparaging comment.

“We are too close to the action, on the front line, you might say. Unable to sit back and appreciate the overall plan, Sturton! I will admit that occasionally it all seems rather strange, but I am sure Their Lordships know exactly what they are doing.”

There was no gain to pursuing that topic.

“Have you orders for us, sir?”

“Patrolling, seaward of the minefields and off Dutch coastal waters, outside their limits, of course. Keep an eye on what may be passing through. Might be the case that the Hun is sending convoys south and breaching neutrality and nothing the Dutch can do about it. They are still building coastal defence ships, will be able to protect the integrity of their waters next year, can’t do a lot this. Under no circumstances will you enter Dutch waters, of course.”

“No, sir. Might I be permitted to sit waiting a mile outside, sir, in Belgian waters?”

“Not just permitted, positively encouraged, Sturton!”

Simon nodded – if he said nothing, then he did not acknowledge the implications in SNO’s words, which was preferable for both men. They would force the German ships to make a display of their presence in Dutch waters, a major breach of neutrality which the American newspapers would make much of.

“A day in harbour – full twenty-four hours, Sturton. Give your people a good shore run. Not a great deal for them to do here, of course. Better than being cooped up in frowsty messdecks!”

Simon grinned ruefully.

“Jack will always find something to do ashore, sir. Four men at least for Rose Cottage as a direct result, I don’t doubt. They have to be given liberty, sir, and we know what they will do with it!”

“Sailors never change, Sturton! I remember on the China Station the year after the Boxer business, letting the crew ashore on leave. I had a sloop at the time, Archer – only small but still more than a hundred men. Ended up with thirty of them in the shore hospital at Honkers! Admiral not best pleased with me, as you will imagine! Couldn’t sail for a month.”

“Never served out East, sir. Not much chance that I shall in this war – all of the action is in European waters. I did see reports of something in the Red Sea recently but that’s about as far east as it goes.”

SNO was dismissive.

“Very minor action, Sturton. Squadron of trawlers – minesweeping and general duties, you know the sort of thing. On anti-slavery patrol and came across a pair of Turkish gunboats escorting a convoy of troopers to attack the Canal. As far as I have heard, the intention was to put a brigade ashore for long enough to take and scuttle any ships they could lay hands on and block the Canal at its southern end. Make it difficult to run troops through from Australia to the Dardanelles. The trawlers sank the lot! Troopships went down in shark waters – full of them, the Red Sea. End result, a thousand or two of fat sharks and no Turkish soldiers!”

“Well done the trawlers, sir! No more than a single four inch apiece, I would expect, and did a very tidy job.”

“Sort of thing one expects of the Navy, Sturton. Reserve skippers, of course, and a single real officer – a lieutenant, don’t know his name. Must have put up a black to have been given that sort of job. Cleared his jib, anyway – the fellow’s been made navigator on a good cruiser, Black Prince, I believe. Came out very well for him.”

All as it should be, the prodigal brought back into the Naval fold. Very satisfying!

“Very good, sir. The half-flotilla will need to visit the powder hulk, sir. Amazing just how many rounds quick firers can get rid of in five minutes of action!”

“Yes, one of their drawbacks. Fire much too fast – bound to be wasteful! Might have been wiser to stick with the old breech loaders, you know, Sturton. Shortage of ammunition at the moment, Army and Navy both. Using up too much, you know how it goes! We have sufficient for your needs. No more bombardments by the monitors and predreadnoughts this side of Christmas – all of the big stuff is going to the Army. Running another one of their ‘pushes’, you know. Going nowhere! Take a quarter of a mile and shout victory! Don’t know how many thousand men those few yards will have cost.”

“I had heard…”

SNO interrupted Simon.

“Too many of these bloody rumours going the rounds, Sturton!” He proceeded to add his own. “On the strict QT, French is on his way out. No idea of what he is doing, hopeless as a commanding general. The question is, who is to succeed him. Likely to be Haig. His family has a lot of money, really pushing out the boat for him, so I am told. They own some MPs, of course, and are dropping some fat little presents in the pockets of others. Got a solid bloc in the House of Lords, as well. French has the ear of the King, but that don’t count for so much these days. Wullie Robertson would be a better general, so I hear, and two or three others of the younger men – none of them with the clout. Add to that, Haig’s cavalry and that’s important. Don’t want a damned foot soldier in supreme command, after all!”

“I had thought Wellington was infantry, sir.”

“So he was, Sturton. Irish as well. Fine soldier, the Iron Duke. Not what is needed these days!”

“Bit of a problem in Ireland, I hear, sir…”

“More than a bit, Sturton. Coming to a head just now. Kaiser is sending money and guns to the Irish traitors. Still a hangover from the Curragh business last year so can’t entirely trust the Protestants either. Place is a pain in the arse! Still sending recruits by the thousand, mark you – the great bulk of the Paddies, Catholic and Protestant equally, are honest, trustworthy men. Best thing for Ireland would be to line every priest and politician of both sides up against a wall and shoot the lot of them! For Christ’s sake don’t repeat that, Sturton! More than my job’s worth to have that heard!”

Simon assured him of his silence, leaving the office with a quiet grin. He had heard the same repeatedly from his naval acquaintance – the Irish were sound, their leaders deserved to be shot. It sounded not unreasonable. The bulk of politicians were unfit to claim membership of the human race; when those politicos were priests and pastors as well, the situation could only be worse.

“Shore leave for all hands and officers, Mr Canning. Leave a bare anchor watch, give all of the hands as long ashore as is possible. Defaulters included on this occasion. Have we any, by the way?”

“Two, sir. Fell into an argument and struck each other. Dealt with it myself, sir, rather than risk it ending up in a court. Stupid business about which music hall singer it was who first sang some vulgar ditty. Both of them swore to hearing it for the first time – different places and people. Twenty minutes after rum issue and neither of them with a head for their tot. Bloody rum has no place in a steam navy, sir! Might have made sense aboard sailing ships where they needed strong arms and no sense for most of the men. No damned good for us on a ship using complicated machinery!”

“Agreed, Canning. Nelson’s Blood – the spirit of the Navy! No arguing with that sort of stupidity. I presume you stopped their issue?”

“Fourteen days, sir.”

“Good. Might bring them to their senses. Far better than a court and time in a shore prison for assault.”

“Can I ask what the word is on Higgins, sir?”

“Nothing yet. Too soon. What do the hands think?”

“Most of them have a sort of affectionate respect, sir, but no great admiration, if you can see the difference. They think it was a bloody daft thing to do. They think he’s bloody daft anyway, so it sort of fits.”

“Unfortunate. Can’t have the lower deck noticing when their officers are stupid. Be no end to it!”

Canning did not know whether Simon was serious, made no response.

“I’ve put him up for the DSC, Canning.”

“No choice, sir. It was a brave act. Unthinking, damned stupid and successful – all the qualities needed for a medal, sir.”

Simon tapped his breast meaningfully and agreed.

“That is not to say that all medal winners are necessarily foolish, of course, sir.”

“Just most of them, eh, Canning?”

They were interrupted by the coxswain.

“Beg pardon, sir. Mr Higgins has just fallen over. Might be as well to get him to a doctor for that leg of his, sir.”

“He said it was no more than a scratch.”

“Bit more than that, sir. Still bleeding. Quite deep.”

“Hospital. Quickly.”

The report came back that the wound had been cleaned, foreign bodies removed and fourteen stitches applied. Mr Higgins was to remain in hospital for a day in case of infection.

“My fault, Canning. I should have known better than to expect sense from that young bugger!”

Simon visited the hospital, cornering the doctor in charge of Higgins and enquiring how long he must be ashore.

“When will he be fit for sea duty, sir?”

“Three weeks would be best, Captain Sturton. A nasty wound, jagged lacerations. Not too deep and no damage to bone but needing time to knit together.”

“Can he go home? Convalescent leave?”

“Best place for him. His mother will give him better care than we can.”

“I shall see what can be arranged. Thank you, Doctor.”

Next stop was SNO’s offices.

“Young Higgins, sir. They’ve just put fourteen stitches into what he said was a scratch on his leg. The doctors want him off for three weeks at least and say he would be better off at home. I would like a replacement for him, if possible, sir, until he is fit to serve again.”

“Necessary, Sturton. If he is wounded, he must be looked after. I shall arrange transport for him at soonest, get him out of the hospital, clear a bed. Where to?”

“London, sir. I have an address for him.”

“Well done. Consider that dealt with. A replacement, now… Not so easy if it is to be a temporary posting.”

“If he is promoted, then a destroyer is not the best place for him as an inexperienced lieutenant, sir.”

SNO grinned.

“You don’t want him back.”

“Not as a lieutenant, sir. Too great a chance that Canning might be promoted out – or killed, of course – and he might have to step up to First, which he could not do. He lacks the knowledge and does not have the ability to learn quickly. As a lieutenant, he will be a liability, wherever he is, unless he is given a very small boat of his own, perhaps.”

“So be it, Sturton. The Coastal Motorboats will be in service in a few months. He can be put across to one of them, to take one of the first and learn how to handle it with a sensible AB at his side. I will put that forward, a strong recommendation, at soonest. Might be able to swing it. I know he is a special case, though why has not been vouchsafed to me…”

It was time to make the admission, to confirm SNO’s obvious surmise.

“I have a strong suspicion, sir, but have been ordered to keep my mouth firmly shut. I might say Dirty Bertie, sir, as long as there was nobody to hear me.”

“Oh, Lord! Another one of those! Why they must be dumped on the Navy, I do not know. I served with one of that sort years back, must be thirty years ago now, as a midshipman. He was in fact a competent sailor. That was fortunate, as he was a post captain before he was thirty!”

“This one is slightly different, sir. The lower deck has the expression ‘thick as two short planks’. We tend to say ‘wooden-headed’, I believe.”

“Well put, Sturton. Let us assume you have a permanent replacement. How do you want to go about it?”

“Not perhaps to trawl for the aristocracy, sir!”

“Unlike your Campbell-Barnes, eh?”

“Exactly. I have a sub, McCracken, who is due his step and young Waller, the mid, is a yachtsman, crewing since the age of ten, and well capable of receiving his commission. A bright midshipman would be ideal, sir.”

SNO shook his head with ponderous humour.

“Can’t guarantee that, Sturton. How about one who is less daft than Higgins?”

“An acceptable compromise, sir.”

“I need confirmation from Harwich before I can put McCracken up, Sturton. That should take no more than a couple of hours, you being a blue-eyed boy! I will come aboard myself in late afternoon to give him the good news in person and lead the mid aboard – don’t want the poor lad getting lost in a foreign land, after all. You may inform Waller of his step.”

All very simple, in fact.

SNO took pleasure in promoting McCracken, telling him what a good chap he was, and meeting Sublieutenant Waller, bursting with joy at his rapid step, and then in producing the new body.

The new midshipman was a wartime volunteer, lacking knowledge of naval habits and traditions, yet well capable of learning the ways of a destroyer at sea for having experience of small craft. Mr Pinkerton was regarded as an asset, despite being Scotch; he had no barbarous accent to mock, was able to fit in quickly.

“What do I do if Mr Higgins comes back, sir?”

“Stay here as an extra hand, Pinkerton. Mr Higgins will be moving to pastures greener, we may be sure. If he returns at all, it will only be for a month or two.”

The wardroom was crowded and Waller, who now had a cabin rather than a cupboard to sleep in, much hoped that Higgins would not be seen again. He took pains to assist Pinkerton to learn the trade and fit in, hoping he would be seen as obviously more useful.

“You seem to know your way about. Where have you sailed before, Pinkerton?”

“On my uncle’s trawler, sir, which I liked. I intended to join him as a deckhand, leaving school as soon as possible. My father is a civil servant, first one of the family to leave the fishing. He had been to the University first. He is very respectable now, promoted a long way, and does not want me to go to sea as a common fisherman, so he arranged for me to join the Royal Navy.”

The word was passed rapidly, the boy was a small boat man off the Arctic trawlers. It helped, especially when he showed competent and willing to work as Lancelot led the half-flotilla on a series of fruitless patrols outside Dutch waters, parading up and down the coastline a careful four miles out to sea, making it clear that there would be no inadvertent straying over the line.

A fortnight unbroken other than for oiling and Simon was called to SNO’s office.

“Intelligence reports that the Hun has stopped running ships along the coast, because you are there, Sturton. A useful blockade. Look out for torpedoes – they are almost bound to send submarines after you. Commendation for Lancelot for shooting down the seaplane, by the way. Much approved of. Mr Higgins – Lieutenant Higgins, that is – will not be returning to you. He is still on sick leave, probably for some weeks yet, the wound having become infected. Nothing too serious, slow healing, that’s all. When he is fit for duty he will be sent to Chatham to work up a torpedo boat, one of the new, small sort, as you recommended. He has his DSC. You will not see his face in the newspapers, surprisingly enough! I am to inform you that the powers that be are pleased with you for your handling of the boy. If he does well in his coastal boat, he will be promoted and sent out to Washington as assistant to the naval attaché there. No actual work to do, just showing off his English accent and being aristocratic at dinner and dance. Good chance a millionaire’s daughter will lay her hands upon him and provide him with a meal ticket for life – young and a hero, what more could they ask for, especially when they get a sniff of royal blood!”

“And the privileged will look after their own again, sir. Why should I complain? I am one of them, after all.”

“In a way, yes, Sturton. You have, however, made your own success. Rather different to young Higgins.”

It was comforting to be told that he was respected in his own right.

“What do we do about these damned submarines, sir?”

“Avoid them. You may be taken into Chatham for a month or two to have depth charge rails fitted. A sort of bomb to be heaved off the stern, exploding under the surface. If you can drop them on top of the submarine, you will do it no favours. That does, of course, mean you have to locate it first, underwater.”

“I have been told of hydrophones, sir.”

“So have I, Sturton. How they work, how you use them, I do not know. For the while, keep a good lookout for torpedoes, especially when there is a full moon and no cloud. They don’t fire at night otherwise and you might be able to see their tracks in daylight. With luck.”

The destroyers had masts, essentially decorative structures, the fore being for signals, the after mast having no obvious function at all. The Admiralty liked its ships to have masts – never knew when they might come in handy and a ship wasn’t a real ship if it didn’t have one, or two.

“Coxswain, we can expect to be attacked by submarines, I am informed. With torpedoes. What’s the chance of reinforcing the after mast and putting a lookout up high?”

“None, sir!”

Westerman was in no mood to tolerate nonsense from his captain, thought it wiser to end any foolish ideas he might have.

“That stick will not take the weight of a man however many guys we rig to it, sir. It serves to fly a flag when we go into battle, assuming we hoist such colours for some reason that amuses an admiral, sir.”

“Pity. More possible to spot a torpedo if the lookout is at high.”

“Can’t be done, sir. The masts are not for practical use, sir. Wireless and signals to the fore, mainmast, strictly speaking, sir. Nothing to the mizzen.”

“Well, it was a thought. I shall require extra lookouts in the day and on moonlit nights, Coxswain.”

“Put one up on the Maxim bandstand, sir. That will give a little height.”

“Limited vision.”

“Yes, sir. Nothing forrard, full scan port and starboard and astern. Two men in the bows, at low speed, that is. Two bridge lookouts. Will it make sense to have one in the stern, sir?”

“If we are not in company, yes. No great gain if we have the half-flotilla behind us.”

Five pairs of eyes, all fairly close to sea level, unlikely to spot a torpedo at any range.

Simon called the three captains to conference.

“If torpedoes are seen, comb the tracks. Turn towards and present a bows on target rather than the beam. Full speed. That is obvious enough. What else?”

“Zigzag, sir. Never holding a straight course for more than say five minutes at a time. Make it difficult to take an aim.”

Travis of Lightning making a sensible suggestion.

“Each ship to maintain its own zigzag so that at any moment some will be port of the mean course, others may be starboard. Make it unpredictable. An end to the line astern at a rigid two cables.”

Campbell-Barnes shook his head.

“Won’t be popular with admirals, sir. Any senior captain seeing us doing that will blow his top. Untidy, sir. Not allowable. Far better to be sunk by a torpedo than to vary from the line, sir.”

“Accepted – the more rigid gentlemen will be unable to tolerate such a breach of decency. I do not doubt I shall be threatened with a court should any of the more senior observe such a lapse from proper standards. I prefer to take that risk rather than invite an almost certain sinking. Intelligence is sure that we will be targeted by submarines. Very likely that they will attack from the safety of Dutch waters.”

“What can we do about that, sir?”

“Nothing. Under no circumstances will we ever stray by so much as an inch into Dutch waters. You will lose your ship if you do – no appeal, no argument. You will not venture into Dutch waters, will not shell any German vessels spotted there. You will be broken if you do. So will I. It is an absolute, I am afraid – no leeway at all. The Dutch know that German ships are breaking the rules, and that British ships are not. They are building up their own navy and training their army. By next year they will be able to enforce neutrality. For the while, they appreciate that we are scrupulous in our observance of their rights and it is useful to us. I am told that interned British soldiers are being sent home, supposedly on medical grounds but actually because the Germans have annoyed them. Escapees from prison camps are being put directly onto ships to England, no questions asked. Add to that, the Dutch are aiding Americans to enter Belgium and report on conditions there. We must not jeopardise Dutch goodwill.”

The three acknowledged Simon’s words, promised to be good.

A month of barren patrolling and the half-flotilla was ordered back to Harwich, told to prepare their demands for the dockyard. Simon was again given a meeting with Tyrwhitt, further evidence of favour.

“We have four weeks of dockyard time for you, Sturton. At Chatham. Pulling out the Maxim and replacing it with something that will be effective as a high-angle gun as well as for normal use. What, I don’t know. They are undecided as yet. Might be a two-pounder pompom. Could be a three inch, a twelve pounder quickfirer. All depends on what is to hand on the day. The three inch has the advantage that it can be used against Zeppelins, having a far greater range than the pompom.”

“I’ve never seen a Zeppelin, sir. We have met seaplanes more than once.”

Tyrwhitt knew that, wondered how they had managed to shoot one down.

“I am fortunate in my Gunner, sir.”

“And no more to be said, Sturton. You did well. For the moment, the important thing is leave. I want you to take at least three weeks, Sturton. Patrolling almost every night is fatiguing. Dangerous to the health. Put the ship in the hands of your Number One – you have told me he is a good man – and disappear, Sturton. Between us, we will arrange for your whole crew to get at least a fortnight. Commission has come through for your Engineer, Mr Malcolm. You may lose him as a result, of course. There is a shortage of skilled men in the yards and there are new ships being launched every month. He may end up in a cruiser or as senior in a flotilla of the new sloops coming off the stocks. Always possible he may be given to one of the new monitors – several of them in the building and some of them far better designed than the originals.”

“Swings and roundabouts, sir. Give with one hand…”

“Take with the other. I know. Can your Canning be made?”

“Yes. He could command a small ship now, will be capable of something far larger in a year or two. An able man indeed.”

“Then you will lose him. I will appoint a good youngster in his place. Don’t worry about that now. Go and make arrangements to go off tomorrow.”

“I will need to send a telegram, sir.”

“My office will deal with that for you and bring any reply across.”

The Parretts responded within the hour. Simon was welcome indeed.

“Packer! Three weeks leave, you with me. Off to Ipswich first. In the morning.”

All would be ready.

Alice Parrett was waiting with the gig when he arrived at the station.

Chapter Six

“Orders, sir.”

Richard thanked the runner from Brigade, sat down below the lip of the trench to read the single sheet of paper. The battalion was to push forward, must take the bunkers before nightfall. The battalion to their left had experienced unacceptable casualties, coming up against uncut wire, would not be moving forward. Reserves would be moved up to secure the left flank as soon as they became available.

“Not a bloody chance! Major Vokes!”

Vokes came at the run, alerted by the edge in Richard’s voice.

“Take your two companies and A and B and set up a perimeter to the left. The flank is wide open at the moment. Use communications trenches for a starter. Bring wire up. We are under orders to take the bunkers to our front. I will not move until our flank is secure.”

Vokes nodded and ran.

“Runner!”

A boy appeared, carrying his Lee Enfield.

“Leave the rifle here. I need you to run hard.” Richard scrawled a message to Braithwaite. “If you lose the message, the verbal is that we need artillery on the bunkers. They cannot be taken without support.”

“Yes, sir.”

The boy ran, skipping across the old no man’s land. Richard wondered just how old he was. His voice was broken; if he thought he was eighteen there could be no argument.

He was called across to C Company, Captain Holmes at the lip of the trench, peering out.

“In front of the third bunker, sir. There is a wiring party just visible to us. A dip in the ground uncovering them, do you see?”

Possibly four hundred yards distant. Difficult for accuracy.

“All of your men up, Holmes. Ten rounds aimed fire.”

A minute and there were thirty rifles at the aim and Holmes called the command.

Richard watched through his glasses, saw tiny figures dropping, being spun around by bullet strikes.

“Take cover!”

C Company slipped to the bottom of the trench as machine guns opened up, crossing the lip, making it untenable.

“No losses, sir.”

“Good. I saw the whole party going down, a dozen hit at least.”

There was a loud explosion from the front.

“Artillery?”

“Not ours, sir.”

Holmes risked raising his head, saw a cloud of smoke at the location of one of the small guns.

“Ready use going up, sir. Might be Michaels again.”

Half an hour and Richard heard yelling from along the line, could not pick out the words. A few minutes and Michaels appeared with two of his riflemen.

“Lost Brown Two and Carmody, sir. Destroyed two bunkers, some ammunition and one gun, two pounder pompom, thereabouts, sir.”

“Well done, Mr Michaels. Get some tea and write a report before you rejoin your company, sir.”

The youth saluted and marched off to the rear.

“That is worth something, Hawkeswill. A brave lad.”

“He has too much to prove, sir. He knows what Draper was as well as we do.”

“So he does. I shall write him up for the MC at least. Can you ask Caton to send me the names of the two surviving riflemen as well?”

“Will do, sir.”

The runner returned with Braithwaite’s reply.

“No artillery to hand. Cavalry brigade will not release RHA in case of breakthrough elsewhere. Is night attack possible?”

Richard wrote his answer – heavy wire in front of the bunkers made attack impossible without artillery.

An hour and there was sudden activity to the left, the battalion there mounting a push to close the open flank. Richard ran across to Major Vokes.

“Can we support them? Who is it, do you know?”

“One of the London battalions. Dozens of them, it seems, volunteers from August ’14 with officers from the various TA and Volunteer companies. Most of them are good. One or two are badly led, according to the whisper.”

Vokes was old Army, could talk with his compeers, was part of the network of pre-war officers. The word did not reach Richard, always came to Vokes, knowing as he did the bulk of established officers of his rank.

“What do you know of that lot?”

“Not a word, sir. Indicative in itself. Wouldn’t mind betting that their brigadier has been on the scene this morning, has superseded the colonel, sent him back, replaced him with a man with some fire in his belly.”

“Support them as we can, Vokes.”

They were able to fire across the face of the advancing battalion, did some good in suppressing the machine guns.

“They have found gaps in the wire, sir. The ones that were said not to exist this morning. Into the first line.”

“Good. Bring your companies up to our front, Vokes. The flank should be secure now. See if you can get men into the second line from our side.”

An hour and the line was secured, the dogleg gone and a gain of almost a quarter of mile in places.

Captain Hawkeswill was less than enthused.

“How far is Berlin from here, sir?”

“No idea! Five hundred miles?”

“Two thousand more advances like this and we will get there, sir.”

“Don’t count how many casualties that will be, Hawkeswill. I doubt I could stand it. Have we been able to get an idea of the wire around the bunkers?”

“A full thirty yard apron, sir, where we can see it clearly. The new German lines are a little higher than ours, so we can’t see too much.”

“Pass the word to dig in. We do not expect to move from here.”

There was an engine noise, an aeroplane coming towards them, low.

“Don’t shoot! It’s one of ours!”

It was a two-seater, a figure in the front cockpit standing up and throwing something over the side, a long streamer dangling from it.

“Bring that in!”

A cleaned out bully beef can with a lid tied on and a brick underneath to weight it, disclosed a written message. Hawkeswill pored over the handwriting, penned in a bouncing cockpit.

“’Mass of infantry to your northeast. Estimate six battalions. Field guns. Aligning for attack.’ That could be dodgy, sir.”

“Issue all Mills Bombs. Bring up our contingency stocks of three-o-three and issue them all. Parties to the rear to grab any of our wire they can move and throw it out to our front. German wire as well. Just in rough entanglements, don’t worry about setting it properly. All walking wounded who can use a rifle to take post. Lewis Gunners to ensure that all expended pans are filled. ‘Major O’Grady!”

The Sergeant Major came at the run, glanced at the message Richard held out to him.

“Sure, and it’s busy chaps we shall be, sir.”

“So we shall, ‘Major. Make a rum issue, if you would be so good.”

In theory, the battalion did not carry stocks of rum. Spirits were brought up from the rear immediately before issue.

“Some will have to have gin, sir. Schnapps, to be more precise.”

“Just as long as they all have something, ‘Major.”

An unexpected, generous-handed issue would do morale a lot of good.

“I shall order them to eat as well, sir. No more than bully and biscuit with tea, being all that we have to hand. It will make them feel the better.”

Something would need to.

Richard sent his runner across to the left, to inform the battalion there that a push was advancing towards the Bedfordshires, would inevitably spill out onto their flank.

A single eighteen pounder battery began to fire probing shells out ahead, presumably guided by a spotter of some sort, possibly the aeroplane that had given them the warning. They suddenly fell into rapid fire, five guns pumping out two shells each a minute, the maximum allowed because of the shortage of ammunition.

“Could use the bloody RHA now, sir.”

“Cavalry won’t release them, Hawkeswill. Say they are to remain in reserve in case of a breakthrough.”

“There will never be a breakthrough, sir. Not that can be exploited by horse.”

“I know that. You know that. Tell it to the generals.”

“Hopeless, sir. Will we ever get generals appointed by ability?”

Blasphemous words from an old salt like Hawkeswill, a man who had spent twenty years training his brain not to think.

“Dear me, Mr Hawkeswill! They are appointed by ability! Their ability to sit on a horse is unmatched and they can parade better than any soldiers ever known. Add to that French is a true expert at fawning to Royalty while Haig knows all about bribing politicians. What more can we demand of our leaders?”

That was too much for Hawkeswill’s nascent independence of thought. He made no reply.

A whistle blew further along their section of trench and a company opened rapid fire. Richard inched his head over the lip of the trench, together with every other unengaged officer. The shouts of ‘ready’ spread all along their line. Their two Vickers began to fire, emptying full belts in sustained bursts. A few more seconds and every company opened fire, followed by the Lewis Guns.

Richard watched as the first wave of attackers dropped to a man. They were shoulder to shoulder, marching faster than the pace the British used, going down under the sustained rifle fire. Second, third, fourth lines appeared and fell, none closer than fifty yards. A few men burrowed into the mass of corpses and began to return fire. The machine guns raked over the pile of bodies, ferreting out the brave few. Fire petered out for lack of a target.

“Runner! Get back to Brigade. We need two hundred thousand rounds of three-o-three within the hour. Another one half of a million at nightfall.”

“Yes, sir. Two ‘undred thou’ jildi, ‘alf a million tonight.”

Richard wondered in passing how the boy had picked up the army slang, an Indian word, in three weeks away from his home posting.

“Hawkeswill, have much have we left to hand?”

“We sent fifty thousand extra to each company, sir, you will remember. They should have forty thousand of that left, sir. That was twelve minutes of rapid fire, sir. Probably one hundred and fifty rounds a man. Never seen the match of that, sir. remarkable performance! Their barrels will be burning hot. Need replacement Emilys, sir. Some of the older ones will have worn past reasonable use after that.”

Richard was familiar with the nickname for the rifle, nodded agreement.

“What have you got in store?”

That was a question never normally to be asked of an adjutant. If he was competent, he would have amassed far more than the legal issue of everything important. The wise colonel never asked, did not want to know. Hawkeswill was properly evasive.

“I can find some, sir.”

“Good. Get your people to discover how many are needed in each company. I suspect we may have to face more of these advances.”

“Not immediately, sir. That’s a white flag to our front.”

“Surrender?” Richard was incredulous.

“No, sir. Temporary truce to pull their wounded in. They will ask for an hour, I expect. Demand two. It will give us time to get ourselves together.”

“Right. How do I respond?”

“Put up our own flag, sir. Then walk out and talk to their man. Take your orderly with you. Never go unaccompanied.”

“I don’t speak German.”

“Their problem. They asked for the truce, they must find an English speaker.”

It was sometimes useful to have an experienced man who knew the rules.

Paisley provided a towel dangling from a broken piece of timber, a split door frame from a bunker by the look of it.

Richard pulled himself over the lip of the trench, marched slowly forward, Paisley tight to his shoulder. A German officer appeared, his orderly carrying a proper flag, dangling from a varnished pole.

“Ready for anything, it seems, Paisley.”

They stopped two yards distant from each other.

Richard stayed silent – the Germans had asked for the truce, it was up to them to speak first.

“Captain Mueller, 2nd Bavarian Jager Battalion.”

“Colonel Baker, 8th Bedfordshires.”

“There are many wounded here, fallen to your machine guns. We did not know you had so many.”

“We do not. Trained riflemen, sir. How long do you require to recover your casualties?”

“There are so many… Two hours, perhaps?”

“Better you should take the rest of the day, Captain. You do not want to drag wounded men about in a hurry. Till four o’clock, Greenwich Mean Time?”

“We use Berlin time. What is your hour now?”

They compared watches, agreed on the precise time for the suspension of hostilities.

“We are not permitted to make local truces, Colonel.”

“Neither are we, Captain.”

They exchanged a smile.

“That is your Victoria Cross, is it not, Colonel Baker?”

“It is, Captain. Awarded last November.”

“The bridge and then the fight all the way back to the slag heaps? I read of it in the Swiss newspapers that come to Germany. My respects, sir.”

They exchanged salutes and parted.

“Find me a runner, please, Hawkeswill. I must inform Brigade.”

“The artillery must be told not to fire – not that that matters, sir – they would miss anyway.”

“Till four o’clock.”

“Oh, that’s useful, sir. I will run our wounded back and have the bearers pick up stores on their return.”

They watched as the German orderlies picked over the piles of bodies, trying to be respectful yet having to haul them out of the windrows they had fallen in, tossing the dead to one side to rescue the living.

“We must have killed two thousand, sir.”

“Not so many surely, Vokes!”

“Like hay before a mower, sir. Never seen the like of it. Take a count now, sir. From the line to the leftmost bunker across to the second, which is directly in front of us. That’s about a quarter of them. So many I have to check them off in tens… Forty tens, sir. Four hundred. Their stretchers are taking off the wounded… Never seen the like, sir. Must be ten dead to one wounded. It ought to be the other way round. Never seen men stand up in the open to be shot before. Unbelievable!”

“Sixteen hundred dead, you estimate, and about one hundred and fifty taken off on stretchers?”

“That’s my count, sir.”

“I shall put that in the report. Two full size battalions destroyed in fifteen minutes of sustained fire. God help us if we are ever ordered to march across open land without a successful barrage in the other direction, Vokes.”

Brigade responded in mid-afternoon with a reminder that it was in breach of Army Regulations to call a local truce. No action was proposed.

Ammunition and replacement rifles began to appear, brought all the way to the front on muleback because there was a truce and it was safe.

Richard was called to the rear, found Braithwaite there together with Major General Fotherby.

“Shouldn’t have accepted a truce, Baker. Very wrong. What’s done is done. No point fussing about it now. What are the chances of an advance, Baker?”

“Given artillery support, sir, it could be done. Big howitzers to batter the bunkers down and two hours of HE from four batteries of sixty pounders to take out the wire. We could then push as far as the bunkers and see what was feasible next, sir. The bunkers are the key. While they remain intact, we cannot move. One of my boys, young Second Lieutenant Michaels, did very well in bombing two bunkers and a pompom. Can’t be done again – they have wire up and are alert for bombing parties.”

“No rounds for the big guns, Baker. All have been expended. No more until the New Year.”

General Fotherby was regretful, accepted they could go no further.

“Done as well as most and better than many, Baker. We have wire. I will get it across to your rear.”

“Thank you, sir. Extra machine guns would be useful. We have two Vickers, could make use of eight more.”

“Eventually, no doubt, Baker. For the moment, no. HQ is concerned that machine guns use up too much ammunition. Battalions should be encouraged to fire them less often and in shorter bursts.”

“What war are they fighting, sir?”

“The important one – in Whitehall, where money is more important than blood. The victor will receive his earldom. Far more important than winning the war. Forget I said that, by the way, Baker.”

“Of course, sir. We could do with a rum issue, sir. Buck up the men’s spirits.”

“Speak to your Sergeant Major, Baker. If he can’t arrange that, there’s something wrong.”

“It was worth a try, sir.”

“So it was. I shall see what may be done. Send me a report on that boy, Michaels, was it?”

“Yes, sir. A good MC, sir, and two riflemen at his side as well.”

“Mentions for them. I shall do what I can for the boy. Pity he used Mills Bombs. French don’t like them.”

“Impossible to blow up a bunker with a bayonet, sir.”

“Nonsense, Baker. To the willing mind, nothing is impossible!”

Fotherby permitted a smile, gave permission to his juniors to laugh.

“Communications trenches, sir.”

“Ah, yes. Haven’t got any and you need them. I shall get a labour battalion up at soonest. They should start work tonight.”

“Labour battalion, sir? New one on me.”

“Hired them in, just arrived. Chinks. Coolies. From China. You know, the yellow buggers with the slant eyes?”

Richard did know who Chinese were, saw nothing wrong in Fotherby’s description of them, perfectly normal in ordinary conversation.

“They say there are hundreds of thousands of them going spare in China, sir. Cheap, as well. Good idea to pick up a few thousand. I read somewhere that the Americans did the same when building their railways. San Francisco is supposed to be full of them.”

“Didn’t know that, Baker. Never been there, of course. Not been to China, either. Regiment was sent to South Africa, wasn’t available when the Boxer business blew up. Pity. Good little campaign, that one. Nice and tidy. Not to worry. I should be able to lay my hands on a good number. Get them to dig a proper zigzag forward.”

There had been a problem in the early days of the trenches, the unwary digging in straight lines which a bullet could traverse end to end.

“Get the telephone wires in as well, sir. Useful thing to have up in the second line.”

“So it is. Get yourself settled in, Baker. The General wants us to keep pushing forward. It might be possible elsewhere, won’t be here. Get yourself comfortable for the winter.”

The German trenches were far better constructed than the British. Concrete had been used in places and the drainage system actually worked. Reversing the trench was a nuisance but the end product was more comfortable, the dugouts deeper and larger than the British and timber lined, making them far less muddy. The bunks were equipped with thicker mattresses as well, although just as full of lice as the British. They fumigated the dugouts and carpeted their floors with thousands of dead insect corpses. At least as many survived, hidden away and emerging to greet the new occupants.

The Medical Officer was worried about the possibility of typhus, which apparently was carried by some sorts of lice, or ticks, perhaps… bugs of some sort, certainly. Not the right sort for these trenches, it seemed, typhus and enteric and its various subspecies all staying clear for the winter.

“Always a chance of cholera, sir. Dysentery is a certainty, of course. I shan’t be happy when the winter influenza strikes, as it always does. Living in cold and damp conditions with too little of heating and poor food makes the men vulnerable to all of the infectious diseases. Still, not as bad as the Crimea, and that was worse than the Boer War. They say the Peninsula was appalling – losses of twenty to sickness for every one killed in battle. We are running no more than three to one in ordinary weeks. Of course, whenever there is a push, the figures do show a change…”

“So, Doctor, what you are saying is that we must take care of the men over winter. Disease will be the enemy.”

“Very much so, Colonel. Not so bad for our men now that they have had a blankets issue. All of them have two at least now of the new, thick, fleecy sort. Some picked up a third, of course, from the casualties.”

Richard had not considered that. He wondered how the dead men’s blankets had been shared out, had a quiet word with O’Grady.

“Done by the sergeants, sir, in the companies. The oldest and the youngest are the ones most needing to sleep warm in the nature of things. They dished them out as was right, sir. Where they could, they sent a couple to the sickbay, sir.”

“Best I know nothing about the business?”

“You have played your part, sir, as the men know. Not the details, as goes without saying, it’s just that everybody knows you fiddled it somehow, sir. Not just a mad bugger when it comes to a fight, which they like, as is only natural; an officer who looks after the men as well, which is not quite so common.”

Richard shrugged, it had not been his intention to make a name for himself as a kind-hearted gentleman. It could do no harm.

O’Grady left, wondering why the man was chuckling. Richard chose not to enlighten him.

‘All because I did not fancy the Old Man disinheriting me. And one thing coming on the heels of another and each forcing me further down the same road. If the Old Man had put me in an office, out of harm’s way, with a promise of a half share when he was gone, I would have been perfectly happy. As it is, I am a colonel, in the Trenches, my name in the newspapers, and a fiancée waiting for me… Better write, I put nothing on paper yesterday. Mustn’t have her worrying more than is inevitable, far too good a girl to do that to her.’

He called to Paisley for tea and sat to composition, admitting that the battalion had been involved in the big battle, because he could not deny it, and trying to find some way of twisting the truth, short of outright lying, to suggest that he had been well out of harm’s way. He suspected she might not believe him. The house at Wells-next-the-Sea served for a good half page – had she seen it, did she like it? He believed that part of Norfolk to be most handsome, healthy as well with the North Sea airs. They could bring up a family there in comfort, he did not doubt. He was stricken by doubt – should he mention a family to an unmarried girl? Was it proper to discuss such matters with her? He dismissed his doubts – anything could be said to Primrose, and by her.

He spent a pleasant hour, longer than he suspected he should have taken from the business of the battalion, rose refreshed from the desk a considerate German officer had left behind and which was now his. A real desk, with drawers and a small cupboard, not the packing case or door laid across two boxes he was used to. He expected it was official issue, German trenches for the use of. Say what you liked about Prussian militarism, they were better at running the minutiae of war.

“Paisley, is this to be our bunker for the duration?”

“Yes, sir. It ain’t the biggest but it’s well set up and has a little one next door for a servant what is convenient indeed. Whoever the Hun was had this built knew how to look after himself, that’s for sure, sir. Got a little flywire meat safe in here, for keeping an opened tin of bully clear of flies, sir. Good for milk, as well. Add to that, if you looks to the wall on the left, there’s a rack for pistol and belts and such, sir. On the right, there’s hooks up to hang a spare tunic. Got electric cables coming in as well, but they ain’t connected to nothing no more so no use to us. Your bunk’s clean as well, sir. Didn’t see no bugs to it when I chucked his blankets out, for not wanting to sleep where a Hun’s been, for not knowing what diseases he might have, them being known for strange habits, as you might say.”

Richard gravely agreed – one heard all sorts of tales about the Germans and could not take too many precautions where they were concerned.

Primrose, accompanied by her mother, the older lady making a rare excursion from her London home, was visiting at Wells. Her new father-to-be, who she rather liked, was to meet the pair at the hotel close to the single wharf on the inlet and was next day to escort the pair to examine the house he had closed on. They progressed fairly quickly on the express to Norwich, remarkably slowly on the coast line that trickled between the resort towns of Cromer and Hunstanton, stopping at most villages in between.

“Beautiful scenery, Mother. One can understand Mr Vaughan Williams a little more for having seen it.”

Her mama was heard to suggest that it was gloomy music and much suited to the countryside. She did prefer a dashing polka, she admitted.

That brought artistic conversation to an end.

Mr Baker was waiting at the station and escorted them the few yards to the hotel.

“A tiny town, ladies. The bare essentials are obtainable and King’s Lynn is less than an hour distant by motor. You will, of course, have a car, Miss Primrose.”

She had not considered that possibility, thought it excellent now that it was mentioned.

“Can we see the house from here, Mr Baker?”

“Almost. Across the creek, in a line with the boathouse you can see, painted pink for some reason. A clump of orchards there obscures the actual buildings. Some of the trees are yours, as is the boathouse.”

“Of course, Richard must know how to sail a small boat and will enjoy the relaxation of a yacht or what do they call it, a dinghy?”

Mr Baker did not know, having never ventured to sea himself.

They were amazed when the hotel staff pulled heavy drapes across the windows before full dusk.

“Got to, sir, ma’am. By order. It’s them Zeppelins what come across the sea with their bombs, sir, ma’am. No light to be shown on the coast nor inland for ten miles and more.”

They were amazed that the war should have spread even to the most rural parts of Britain. It had not affected the food the hotel offered, however. They ate well and long.

Mr Baker’s chauffeur had the vehicle waiting for them after breakfast, a large and solid Humber.

“Mostly going to the Army as staff cars, ma’am, Miss Primrose. Being as the steel works is producing in the national interest, armour plate for new projects especially, I have been granted a vehicle.”

They admired his importance to the country, much to his pleasure.

Less than a mile, inland, across the creek and then eastwards along a lane leading to the sea brought them to the house.

“It is larger than I thought for, sir.”

“Well, Miss Primrose, it is, I will admit, a little more than I had first intended.”

The manor stood imposing in local stone, a brownish grey, rambling over several extensions and dating from Elizabeth to Victoria by way of the Restoration and early Georgian. Each builder had been true to his times, had clung to the genius of the day. A glance at the upper storey suggested thirty bedrooms, some with tiny diamond panes, others under pointed redbrick Gothick arches, a few broadly welcoming the light of the eighteenth century. The roof line was uneven, all tiled but of differing colours and size. A part of the roof was half-mansard, most was simply steep-pitched against the snows not uncommon in Norfolk.

The entry led through double oak doors into a grand hallway, twenty feet high and as broad. At least two dozen doors led to various reception and dining rooms and to the rear offices.

“So many servants it would need, Mr Baker! Not at all practical in this day and age.”

Mr Baker showed triumphant – he had considered the servant problem.

“From Belgium in the first instance, Miss Primrose. Three families of them. Thereafter, more foreigners, ma’am. You will not mind the odd brown or yellow skin, I am sure, ma’am!”

Primrose did not know if that was the case. She felt there was little choice, particularly as she was rapidly falling into love with the house – it was warm and eccentric, much as she believed herself to be. She would happily spend her days in such a mansion. In the back of her mind was an awareness that she was spoiled, a rich brat indulging herself. That being so, she would nonetheless enjoy her existence in such luxury, the more for having a much-loved husband at her side, provided only he survived this damnable war.

“Another battle in Artois, sir. In that part of the lines where Richard is serving.”

“The figures are high again, as well.”

Her mother made her first contribution to the conversation.

“I am sure the Colonel will be well, Primrose. Men of his rank do not go headlong into battle, I believe.”

“He has already taken part in a trench raid, Mother. He believes that he must lead his men, not tell them to go in front of him. We know him to be the bravest of the brave – I could wish he were not. He must do what he knows is right. I am not to ask him to go against his nature, much though I wish he might.”

“He has come through safe so far, Miss Primrose. He has the luck with him, I much hope.”

They inspected the house, slowly over two hours, meeting the staff, finding some of the Belgians to be wholly at home in service, one family to be of a place in life that had given them their own servants prior to the war.

“I can cook, madame. My husband will mind the wine cellar and the library. My daughters are of ten and twelve and can both clean and dust and learn their English. One day, we shall return to Ciney and my husband will take back his place as attorney in the town and all will be well again. Until then, madame, we are to be thankful for a place to live, a roof over our heads, especially in so pleasant a little town. London was not for me, madame!”

“No, it is a smelly town, Mrs Bouchard. Not my favourite place.”

“I am glad to get the girls away as well. There are wicked men in London, madame, offering money to other refugees for their little girls.”

They were appalled by such vileness, had not heard of its like.

Mr Baker shook his head.

“They have been telling me to open an office in London, Miss Primrose, a place where drawings could be made and discussed easily with the War Office. I think I must do so and will send a pair of clever young men there to do the work. I do not think it will see me often if that is what happens in Town.”

“You said there was a possibility of brown or yellow men coming into our service, Mr Baker. How would that be so?”

“The servants of dead officers, Miss Primrose. Often, men who have spent years in India or on the China Station will bring favoured servants back with them. Dying in the Trenches, they leave these men at a loose end. I have taken two on at my own house, having had them recommended from the barracks at Bedford, being part of the regimental family now. I have found them good, reliable men. With your permission, I would seek more.”

It made sense, in its own way. The poor men could not be left without work in a strange land. She wondered how they would get on in the most rural county of Norfolk.

“The furniture is all old, Miss Primrose. I have it in mind to throw it all out and refurbish from top to bottom. Some of these dressers might be three hundred years old, fit for the bonfire and nothing else.”

She thought they fitted with the ambience of the house, begged that he should leave all in place, leaving it to the pair of them to decide what would stay and what must go. She debated introducing Mr Baker to the concept of the ‘antique’, decided it might be too much by the way of hard work.

“What of the gardens, sir? Are they large? You spoke of the orchard last night.”

He did not in fact know exactly what the boundaries were. The Belgian gardener offered to show him.

A vast vegetable garden to the rear, all in good order and getting better rapidly, the gardener one to value his vegetables. To the front, an acre of lawns and driveway in a semicircle between two gates. On the east side, a hedge across ten yards of lawn, looking out over the sea. The south sprawled over several acres down to the boathouse by way of thirty or more apple trees and a number of pears. Six goats presided over the grassland, led by a curly horned billy who stared at them with evil slit eyes, announcing his ownership of grass and flock.

“Good milk, sir.”

Neither lady nor Mr Baker were in the habit of drinking goat’s milk. The gardener was much in favour – it left more for him and his family.

Inspection disclosed a small rowing dinghy with a pair of oars forlorn in the middle of the boathouse.

“Might be you would want to buy a yacht, Miss Primrose.”

“I think that decision might be left to Richard, sir. I do not know if he is still of a nautical mind.”

They looked out over the little harbour, one small coaster all that was present.

“The fishing boats will be out, I must imagine, Mr Baker.”

“Don’t think there are many, Miss Primrose. From what the lawyer told me, they are distant from the best grounds. Might have a few local crabbers, not much else. The ship will carry grain, I would think, though not much at this time of year. Fertiliser perhaps, though most of the potash is going to munitions these days. House coal in bags, perhaps. Timber for building. Always a call for cement, I suppose. I do not know much of the local trade, Miss Primrose.”

It was considerably more than she did.

Mr Baker suddenly stood square, pulling himself up straight to perform an unpleasant duty. Primrose wondered what he had done, what he was to confess.

“I do ‘ave to say, Miss Primrose, as what I ‘as gone further than what I said.”

She noticed that his carefully learnt English crumbled under stress.

“What have you done that is so very awful, sir?”

She smiled her best, to his delight.

“Knew it wouldn’t be so bad, Miss Primrose. Thing is, the house comes with a farm, the two sold together and the seller not willing to split them up – you takes the one, you gets the t’other, you might say. His lawyer says as how it’s because there ain’t no farmhouse for a freeholder to live in. Ends up, Miss Primrose, as how there’s the better part of five hundred acres besides!”

“That is a lot of land, sir.”

“Well… It is and it ain’t, you might say. It ain’t big enough to make a man a good living and it’s too big to be a smallholding, and nowhere to sell eggs and vegetables and stuff anyhow. So, it ain’t neither one thing nor another. That was why, I think, they had trouble selling the place so that it came to me as a bit of a windfall which was why I bought bigger than I was going to for costing much the same.”

She considered that last sentence at some length, decided it made sense.

“So, we have five hundred acres of wheat fields, Mr Baker.”

“No, Miss Primrose, not as such, for most of it not being land as will go down to wheat. Pasturelands, the bulk of it, down along the side of the sea and the creek. From what the lawyer said, no more than fifty acres of grainland, and that mostly better for barley in these parts, for going down to the brewery at Fakenham what buys it.”

Primrose summoned her slight knowledge of agriculture.

“Cattle or sheep, sir?”

“Beef cattle, was what the man told me.”

She suspected that neither she nor Richard would be in the way of herding cattle.

“I expect there will be a local man will pay a rent for use of the acres, Mr Baker. If not, well we can keep a horse or two and perhaps a little dairy herd. Are there cottages to the rear?”

“Six of them, little places, Miss Primrose. The Belgians has got three of them just now. Staff quarters up in the attics as well. Plenty of space for a groom and a cowman, if you wanted such.”

Neither considered the cost of running the land for pleasure – it would be insignificant, they were sure.

They came away satisfied, assuring the Belgians that they would take up residence as soon as the war permitted a wedding.

“Colonel Baker will come home for a few months at some time, I do not doubt, Bouchard. He will be needed to train another battalion, or something, no doubt. When he does, we shall be wed and I will come here to live.”

They hoped it might be so, and soon.

Chapter Seven

“I wish to ask for your daughter’s hand, sir.”

Simon had sought an interview with the elder Parrett soon after arriving at the mansion. His request had been expected and was most welcome.

“I had hoped you might, Captain Sturton. I have no doubt that Alice will delight in your proposal. So do I. You will be a most welcome member of the family. I have an idea of your financial standing, naturally, having some slight acquaintance with the City. Form demands that I must ascertain that you can support my daughter.”

They laughed together.

Simon dropped into the little speech he had prepared.

“I am heir to the Perceval viscountcy, as you know, sir. I am also sole legatee. My uncle assures me that all of his money will come to me. As an exact sum? I do not know. I suspect we are talking in excess of the million. There will be almost no land – a house in Kent with a few acres of park and perhaps a small farm, sufficient for ponies. We have broken the entail and are in process of selling almost all of the farms. The old house down in Dorset – which I have never seen – has already been taken up by the War Office.”

Parrett nodded gravely.

“Very sensible, Captain Sturton… Come now, I believe I can call you Simon, can I not?”

“With pleasure, sir. There are still those who believe in the Land, my uncle tells me. I am sure they are wrong. Farming in England will never pay for itself.”

“So my grandfather believed, Simon. He bought this house and would not touch the acres that went with it. Sold them all. Clever of him! We have prospered ever since, because we did not have the drag of farmland emptying our purses.”

They basked in the appreciation of their own wisdom.

“My income, sir, is three thousand a year plus my pay. A comfortable sum on which to keep a wife, I believe.”

“Ample, Simon. Will you hold your own house or use the property in Kent?”

“I have yet to speak to my uncle on that, sir. Whichever, I do not doubt that I can cope.”

“Agreed. Alice is a younger child, of course, will come with her bottom drawer, as they say, and some thousands, but no income of her own.”

Simon had assumed such.

“My Will leaves the bulk to my eldest son, naturally, but there will be legacies to each child, in the neighbourhood of fifty thousand. I trust they will survive to receive them. All three boys have now gone off to war.”

“Your eldest as well, sir?”

“He took a commission last month. He could not remain here in effective idleness, he said. To an extent he is right – having no land is a benefit but leads to a lack of occupation for us. I use managers in the City, as you know, so there was nothing for George to do in the ordinary way of things. No difficulty in time of peace – London close to hand, he keeps rooms in Town and occupies himself as any young man of leisure might, sport and clubs and such. With the nation at war, he found he could not remain at home. The more so, of course, for his youngest brother, your ‘Polly’, distinguishing himself as he has done. Your much decorated presence is also something of an embarrassment, as you will appreciate. His second brother is in the Trenches now. He could not stay at home.”

“Which regiment has he joined?”

“The Suffolks. Our own county regiment, as is right. I believe he sailed from Dover yesterday. Six weeks at the depot learning the ropes is normal for a young second lieutenant.”

The word was that the life expectancy of new lieutenants was measured in weeks. Perhaps one half died in their first month of service in the Trenches. Those who survived the baptism seemed to last a long time, or so it was hoped.

There was nothing to say.

“Have you heard from Polly, sir?”

“He is in the Mediterranean in command of his own destroyer, as you know. The few letters we have received suggest he is enjoying himself as captain. Ridiculous, of course – he is barely more than a schoolboy! This war has forced so many boys to become men before their time, Simon!”

“It has, sir. What will become of them when it is all over, I cannot imagine. We have an easier life in the Navy, that I am sure of. Even so, we are pushed to take responsibility undreamed of even two years ago. In October ’13 I was a sublieutenant, a very minor specimen of humanity and expecting with luck to become lieutenant in ’15 or ’16. Now, I am a lieutenant commander with a half-flotilla of my own and every prospect of stepping up in the naval world again if the war lasts another two years.”

“It will, Simon. Every rational prospect says it could last another ten. There is nothing to stop the stalemate we can see in the Trenches dragging on for a decade. Russia is collapsing and Germany will soon be able to feed herself from the steppes, making the blockade a nonsense. Kitchener sits in his office and proclaims the need for more men to go out to France while Churchill wastes resources in Turkey. The fleet sits in idleness in the Shetlands. I can see no hope of winning this war, and no likelihood of losing it. Such being the case, it can never end.”

“What of America, sir?”

“Profiting greatly from us. Quite rightly, too. We desire to buy from them. They wish to sell to us. Perfectly normal business. They would be fools to join in on either side. Mind you, there are rumours that Germany is trying to make some sort of connection with Mexico, offering them the lands America stole in the South West. They could use that threat to force America to become truly neutral.”

It seemed far-fetched. The whole war was crazy – it was possible.

“I am told that the Japanese are sending a fleet to the Mediterranean, Simon. Have you heard of that?”

No word had reached Harwich if that was so.

“Enough of gloom, Simon. Off you go with my blessing to find Alice.”

The proposal was made in form and accepted with delight, elder sister and mother joining the pair after ten minutes to express their joy and prise them apart.

“When can you wed, Simon?”

“I have a long leave now, will not get another this year in the ordinary way of things. In early ’16, I might hope.”

Alice looked hopeful.

“The war should end then, Simon. Kitchener’s New Army is to be trained and ready to go in the summer. It must end the war, all of the newspapers say so.”

“The newspapers may say that, my love. Outside of Fleet Street there is less optimism. They may be very good – the flower of English youth, I believe – but they will still be a bare quarter of a million against an estimated two million Germans in the trenches. The French have taken huge losses already and will not march in Flanders, we are told. The British Army will not win this war without a huge number of allies.”

“What of the naval war, Simon?”

Alice’s sister, Sarah, had rarely spoken in company. She was, he thought, still grieving for her fiancé, lost in the war of movement the previous year.

“None as far as the Grand Fleet is concerned. For us, the small ships, predominantly a defensive war. Above all, we must protect the Channel and the unending flow of troopships and ration carriers. Until we take our war to the German-held ports, we will be holding, not advancing. We have been successful so far in keeping the German destroyers and submarines at a distance. It needs only a single night of failure for the war to take a turn for the bad. A dozen torpedoes could cost us a division, and that would be a disaster.”

“I have been thinking of taking up nursing, Simon. A year to learn the necessary skills… It seems that my services might still be required then.”

He had nothing to say, could not encourage her if her parents were opposed. Nurses were needed and every girl with an education should be doing something for the country… Not Alice, however. She was not the practical sort, he suspected.

“When will the notice reach The Times, do you think, ma’am?”

Better to turn the conversation to the banal.

“My husband will be setting that in hand now, I much suspect, Simon. Is your Uncle Sturton aware of your intentions?”

“He has signified his happiness with the marriage, ma’am. We must make the necessary arrangements, I do not doubt.”

“A dinner for our acquaintance is all that can be convenable in wartime. No doubt the Viscount could be invited to attend.”

Simon suspected he would be a prize to be unveiled to the County, aristocracy being uncommon among their guests.

“If you can set a date, ma’am, I must be in London next week and will speak to him in person.”

Alice was dismayed.

“Oh, can you not stay for your whole leave, Simon?”

He could not – there was family business to attend to and he needed to inform his Grandfather Isaacs in person of his engagement. He had sent him a letter, courtesy demanded that he speak to him.

“I intend, if it is convenient, to remain for this week, spend much of next in London and then come back for the last weekend and few days of my leave. Will it be possible to arrange the dinner in that time, ma’am?”

Mrs Parrett was sure that it would be. She would make very certain of it.

“Will your Uncle, Viscount Perceval, be able to stay here overnight, do you think, Simon?”

It was likely, Simon assured her.

The most distinguished guest to stay at the Hall in her time as chatelaine. Mrs Parrett would ensure he was immersed in luxury. She would also be careful that the whole County would be aware of his presence.

Days of idleness and pleasure in Alice’s company and intentionally not looking at the newspapers – a complete break from the strain of taking a ship to war. He had not known just how much pressure he had been under until it came to a temporary end. He slept for twelve hours, three nights in a row, lazed in a chair or outside on a bench for those days.

Towards the end of the week he found himself awake and alert again, apologised for being such bad company.

“You were exhausted, Simon. You needed the rest. My mother is going into Ipswich today Shall we accompany her?”

The town was dull, too many of the smaller stores displaying knots of black ribbon for sons and counter jumpers who had gone off to war and would not return. The selection of goods inside the expensive places – the only ones they patronised – was almost unchanged. There was even a supply of caviar again, more costly for having crossed to Vladivostok by rail then to San Francisco or Vancouver and across the continent before taking ship a second time. Where there was the need, and the money, life’s little luxuries were available.

There was some talk of rationing. Mrs Parrett was dismissive.

“Not for the likes of us, Simon. The government knows better!”

He made no answer, seeing poverty that she evidently did not notice. There were poorly clothed women and children, some of whom were barefoot, with oilcloth shopping bags showing almost empty. A loaf of bread, a bottle of milk and little else for most.

“Prices do seem to be higher, Mrs Parrett.”

“Oh! Are they? I just put our purchases to the account. I do not look at the cost. That is cleared every month, or is it quarter? By the housekeeper, in any case.”

Alice seemed to regard this as an entirely reasonable way of life. Simon feared he might have to hold a discussion with her regarding money. He was well off; he could hardly cope with Mrs Parrett’s level of expense.

They took a light lunch at the County Hotel before making their way to a jewellers for the important business of the day, the selection of a ring.

There were any number of stones on display and the prices seemed less than Simon might have expected. A quiet word to the proprietor disclosed that the war had led to widows with children to keep and suddenly inadequate incomes.

“Several of the leading professional gentlemen of the town, sir, went off to war last August. It was quite the thing among them to join the Territorial Army before the war, almost a local club, one might say. Away they went and only too many will not come back again. Some. naturally, sir, have distinguished themselves and others are respectably commissioned now, having risen quickly from the ranks, as is only to be expected. At least a dozen of the town’s solicitors and accountants and surveyors and architects and such have fallen, sir. As a Naval officer, of some distinction, you may not be aware of the casualties the infantry have experienced. Three of my sons marched in August, sir. Two survive, one of them at home again, possibly for life, wounded.”

Simon had noticed the black band on the jeweller’s sleeve. He murmured appropriate words.

“Several of the ladies have found it necessary to sell their rings and necklaces and brooches. I have made it a policy to break them up so that the pieces might not be recognised and commented on. I would not normally hold a stock of the larger stones in the provinces, would send them up to London to be disposed of. So many have been put on the market that their price has fallen substantially in Town and it is as well to hold them here. I can place a most respectable brilliant on Miss Parrett’s finger, sir, at less than pre-war price.”

An hour and the stone was chosen and the ring commissioned to be ready in the following week. Simon made a note to speak to his uncle about precious stones. When the war ended, it was likely they would rise again.

His uncle agreed, thought it a clever notion.

“A young man to travel the county towns of East Anglia and then across the western parts. From Shropshire down into Hereford and Gloucester and into the West Country proper. Cash in hand will be welcome to jewellers who are finding more clients wishing to sell to them than buy. The Home Counties, closer to London, might not be so fruitful… It might be possible to sweep through the west and north of Wales and then into the rural parts of the North. We might put twenty or thirty thousand pounds out, Simon, having the advantage that the Inland Revenue will know nothing of the business. We could well sell quietly to the trade in as much as ten years from now. I can see a respectable profit there, Simon! Well thought, young man!”

Simon wondered just how large ‘respectable’ was, did not ask further.

“I do not have it in mind to remain in the Navy after the war, sir. I must bend my mind to consideration of business, I think.”

“Not necessarily, Simon. A number of years as a Member of Parliament followed inevitably by your translation to the House of Lords on my death would be the basis of a sound political career. You cannot ever be Prime Minister as it is accepted now that he must sit in the Commons. Foreign Secretary, second in importance, would be well within your reach. As a Cabinet Minister you would be in a position to serve country and family both. A distinguished wartime career with decorations for gallantry means that either Party would snap you up as a candidate – you could achieve a seat with no difficulty. Your grandfather would be much in favour of such a course, I know. He is a Tory, has slipped a good few thousand into party coffers over the last few years, so it will be easier to find you a seat in their interest – somewhere safe in the Shires with a massive majority so you will not have to worry about electioneering and such. You would not have to worry about an income either. Your grandfather and I would both see to the extra money you would need.”

It was an attractive prospect. With Alice at his side, all that a political wife should be, he could enjoy a busy and prosperous existence. He would also be known in his country – that might be attractive, he admitted.

“All I have to do is survive the war, sir, and my future is made.”

“You could leave Harwich, take a position in the Admiralty, Simon. Or at Scapa Flow, perhaps?”

He shook his head brusquely.

“No, sir. I have work to do in the boats. I cannot leave the job undone, step back to allow a lesser man to stand in my place. It sounds arrogant perhaps, sir. It is. I am still one of the best of the destroyermen and performing a task that others could not do so well. Duty, sir, drilled into me by the Navy and part of my very existence. I cannot refuse the task allotted to me.”

“I can only cry ‘well done’, Simon, and wish that you were less of a man. No, withdraw that, how could you be? You are what you are and I admire you for it. Your grandfather wishes to speak to you this week. Shall I arrange for Thursday?”

The old gentleman was as alert and upright as ever. Simon had a suspicion that he would die still at the height of his mental powers, sat at his desk having just completed a piece of work and able to give his attention to mortality, to accept that his heart had stopped.

“Coffee, Simon? My congratulations on your forthcoming marriage, my boy! A sound family, the Parretts. I have instructed my people to speak with their managers, give them a pointer or two to bring them into the circle of those who know what’s going on.”

Simon suspected that his father by marriage was about to become far richer. Not a bad thing.

“Your uncle suggests that you are thinking of a political existence, after the war that is.”

“It seems a sensible idea, sir. The Navy will have little for me, for having achieved too many promotions, too young. I am certain to become Commander within two years. Far too young for the peacetime sailors. I could expect ten years of polishing the brasswork and indulging in futility if I remained in the service. Post captain at thirty-five and then what to do with me? Five years to the command of a capital ship and ten to rear admiral, all the time giving orders to older men with many more years of service and regarding me as an upstart who had a lucky war. Better to enter another career entirely, sir.”

The old gentleman accepted the argument.

“Well thought. I agree. Better you should sit as a Conservative – not much difference between the major parties, after all, and I can find a good safe seat for you. There will be an election soon after the war ends. I shall see you become a Member then. If not me, in person, whoever sits in this chair will deal with the matter. My sons are aware of my mind on this. You will need a place in Town – more convenient than hiring rooms while the House is sitting. I shall see to that, and another in your constituency. Always goes down better if the MP is a local man, or appears to be for living in the area.”

Simon felt much as if he had stood in front of a steamroller. His life had just been packaged up neatly and tidily for him. All he had to do was show his face at the right place and correct time.

“Funny, sir. On my bridge, I am lord and master of all and command their comings and their goings…”

“And here, young man, you obediently say ‘aye aye, sir’ and do as you are told. I understand that I am somewhat brief in my ways. You have permission to tell me so, when necessary. As a Minister of the Crown, which you will certainly be before too many years have passed, you will have a duty to King and Country, Simon. I will make my voice heard, do not doubt that, but the final decisions must be yours. I shall not disown you in a fit of pique if you decide it is better to go against me.”

“I had worried about that, sir.”

“Do not. I may be a king of finance, I do not consider myself to be a Pope as well, infallible and to be blindly obeyed. Now then, Miss Alice Parrett, what sort of betrothal gift should I send her?”

Simon had not the slightest idea.

“As I suspected. Leave it to me. A necklace will never come amiss, in my experience of the female! What does the Navy most need in Belgium, do you think?”

The sudden change of topic flustered Simon for a few seconds. He was able to find a reply.

“Bigger and faster destroyers and some means of locating submarines under the sea. More minesweepers, designed for the job. Some imagination amongst the admirals.”

“I can do nothing about the latter, I fear. I will pass the word on the other three items.”

Scapa Flow was tedious. Black Prince sat at her mooring for weeks on end, waiting at eight hours notice for steam, her crew busily polishing themselves and everything else they could find. Every few days a warning notice for sailing arrived as it seemed possible that the German High Seas Fleet was moving; it was inevitably cancelled within a few hours and the stokers were told to stand down.

Life was particularly boring for Christopher Adams. As Navigating Officer he had no other responsibilities, no division of men, no section of ship to care for. His sole activity was to spend a couple of hours a week correcting his charts and a few more training up the sublieutenant and midshipman allocated to him. Both youths were sufficiently bright to assimilate the knowledge he offered; neither knew anybody from his stratum of Society or had any interesting conversation.

He played a good hand of bridge – it had been a necessity for a flag lieutenant – and that occupied a few hours of every day. He had a few books in his cabin and was able to exchange them with other reading officers. Much of his time was spent in the wardroom, talking with whoever was present.

He was not interested in hunting the fox and shot no more than was socially necessary, so sporting converse was a pain to him. The war, politics and women were banned topics in the wardroom and that left very little else to chat about. He had played Rugby on occasion and was able to listen to the Gunnery Officer, who had played for the Navy, as he interminably relived exciting matches he had taken part in.

‘We went into a ruck’ was a phrase liable to haunt him to his dying days, he feared. Guns had done little other than ruck in his whole life, or so it seemed. He was sure it was jolly good fun.

Black Prince was anchored behind Duke of Edinburgh, senior ship in the class. Connaught had been sent off to the East African coast where a heavy ship was required in case something large and Germanic appeared to interfere in the long-dragging campaign there. The pair of armoured cruisers sat and waited, occasionally debating just what they might do when the fleet eventually sallied forth.

The commander discussed their function often when he was on the bridge with Christopher.

“Thing is, Adams, we in the Cruiser Squadron are too slow to catch a destroyer and too small to say anything to a battleship or battlecruiser. Bit pointless, in fact.”

“Are we not supposed to catch destroyers at a distance, before they can launch torpedoes at the Grand Fleet, sir?”

“In theory, yes. Six nine point twos and six now of six inch, all usable, says we can lay down a respectable broadside – more than fifteen hundred pounds weight of explosive shell. Won’t need armour-piercing for our work, of course. Trouble is, Adams, that I am not entirely certain we could hit a small and fast target like destroyers, particularly at more than three thousand yards, outside effective torpedo range. The shortage of ammunition means we get little target practice, as you know. The shooting on the range is at stationary targets – and we don’t hit them too often over more than a mile.”

It seemed that Black Prince must reduce the range if she was to hit destroyers.

“That seems to imply that we should leave the fleet and close on the Germans if we are to be effective, sir.”

“Exactly, Adams. The captain is aware of that. I suspect that may be his intention, you know. The Fleet Orders place us ‘on the beam’ unless specifically sent elsewhere. The implication is that we shall be behind the line of battleships until we are called on to meet a destroyer attack when we shall cut through the line and do our job before returning to safety. The Orders are not entirely specific and a willing mind can query which beam we should be abaft. Add to that, when we are sent out to deal with destroyers, there is no specification of how far we should go. I rather suspect that we are seen as a minor unit and that the orders for us were drafted by a junior man on Jellicoe’s staff and passed through on the nod. The great man himself has probably given us very little attention. The captain seems to wish to take advantage of that.”

Christopher could see the possibilities.

A cruiser captain who distinguished himself in the great battle would receive immediate promotion, certainly moving to a battleship command, possibly as a rear admiral with a squadron. There would be decorations, perhaps a knighthood. All of the senior officers would be recognised.

Black Prince had three torpedo tubes as well as her guns, could hit hard at close range. She could sink a lightly armoured battlecruiser, almost of a certainty, if she could get close to the far faster ship.

“Shifting out to meet a night destroyer attack, sir, and then venturing a little closer than might be expected to the German line, coming across one of their big battlecruisers in the darkness… Might be a chance of putting down Derfflinger or Seydlitz if all went well. If all three torpedoes hit then three or four rapid broadsides of armour-piercing might do the trick. Demands a deal of luck, sir, right place at the right time, sort of thing.”

The Commander was less enthusiastic.

“All very well, Adams, but when did we exercise the torpedoes? Add to that, any battlecruiser will be in company. While we are hitting your big target, which we might do, there could be up to a dozen of battlecruisers and battleships in range and doing their best to hit us. It is likely that we could get the torpedoes away and a couple of broadsides… After that, with eleven and twelve inch shell raining down on us, how long would we live?”

The only answer was ‘minutes’. Black Prince could take bold action; there would be very little chance of surviving it.

“Can we exercise the tubes in dumbshow, in harbour, sir?”

“We should. The Gunnery Officer sees no need, expecting never to use them. He has them manned by stewards and officers’ servants at action stations, seeing no need to waste useful hands on them. I am not sure they could even load one torpedo into its tube, let alone all three, and, as for reloads, forget it! It takes muscle to heave a torpedo out of its rack and into a cradle and then move it across to slide it into a tube. Stewards are known for many things, Adams, but physical strength ain’t one of them.”

Christopher agreed. Stewards rarely carried anything heavier than a tray with a glass of gin. Manhandling three quarters of a ton of torpedo was certainly beyond them. The officers’ servants were almost all ancient ABs, good seamen beyond their prime, too old to be employed on deck or at the guns. They would try their best with muscles that were past it.

“Not a great chance of hitting with the torpedoes. No certainty even of firing them. Is the captain aware, sir?”

“He discounts them in any case. Good gunnery at close range, using HE for best effect. No need to worry about damned new inventions when firing at a thousand yards, Adams!”

“I met that attitude on Connaught, sir. The Gunnery Officer there could not believe in armour-piercing. Fortunately, the target was an ancient Austrian predreadnought at anchor and two out of four torpedoes from our consort hit her. Twenty-one inch and squarely amidships, one of them, destroying the boiler room. No nets or booms in the way. She turned turtle in minutes. Even on such an old vessel, her armour was sufficient that HE had very little effect. Same at the Falkland Isles. The Germans had expended all of their armour-piercing at Coronel and the HE did not penetrate Invincible or Indefatigable. Killed one man, their sole effect. A touch-up of the paintwork and off we went. Fortunate, that was.”

The Commander had heard that the battle had been less glorious than the newspapers had announced, knew none of the detail. Christopher had pleasure informing him.

“Three percent accuracy at range. Less than fifty at two thousand yards, you say, Adams?”

“Seen by my own eyes, sir. I was counting.”

“Good God! I wonder, would we do any better?”

Christopher thought it might be tactless to answer.

“A change, gentlemen! We are to spend a week at Queensferry, replacing our searchlight in the yard and changing some of the three pounders for anti-aircraft guns, of all things!”

The Captain was openly scornful of the imposition of such innovations on his ship. He turned to his senior officers, gathered in his cabin.

“Aeroplanes! Who cares about them? Have any of you seen an aeroplane at sea?”

The question had been asked and could not be ducked. Christopher raised a finger.

“An Austrian seaplane, sir. Off Split. Looking for Connaught after she sank the old battleship there.”

“Reconnaissance, you say, Adams?”

“Yes, sir. Rather foolishly, it dropped a pair of tiny hand grenades which left a soot mark on one of the main battery turrets. I suppose, sir, that if they had been lucky and had dropped on the open upper bridge, then we might have lost officers. Chances were against it. If aeroplanes get bigger, and carry larger bombs, then a flotilla of a dozen all attacking at once could do great harm. At the moment, sir, I do not think we need fear them.”

The Captain snorted. He had been about to say the same. Now, he had to think of something different because his rank demanded he should have the last word.

“Well put, Adams. What I will say, thinking on it, is that we don’t want scouting aeroplanes with these damned wirelesses sending back details of where we are and what we are doing. Bad enough to have Zeppelins wandering about. Can see them at least, even if we can’t do much about them. They are going to give us four three inch twelve pounders with some sort of special shell – timed fuses or some such thing to explode in the air. No need to make a direct hit. Means we need another twenty men, Guns. See to their messing with your division. Get them some practice as soon as we leave Queensferry.”

The Gunnery Officer signified his understanding of the order, shaking his head unhappily. The mess decks on Black Prince were already overcrowded with additional wartime postings; where to put another twenty men was beyond him.

The Commander tapped Guns’ shoulder.

“See me afterwards, Guns. I can find an unused compartment. Belonged to the band and we have set them ashore.”

The remainder of the daily meeting drifted to its end, nothing else of importance mentioned. The Captain said that the Admiral was disappointed in the general level of smartness of the Grand Fleet. He had seen a number of slack pulling boats in the Sound, reminded all ships of the need to turn their boats’ crews out smartly.

“Provisioning, gentlemen! The boats were returning from the butchery with sheep and bullock carcasses, recently slaughtered and running blood. What does he expect? No captain is going to dress his men in number ones just to get them ruined with blood and guts! Getting the twitch, if you ask me, sitting on his backside up here instead of sailing out to seek battle. Not the way Nelson ran a war!”

The officers left, smiling openly at these disloyal words. None of them wanted to stay another day at Scapa Flow; all were willing by then to sail direct to the Kattegat and round Denmark in a great assault on the Baltic Sea and Kiel and to hell with minefields and submarines both.

“Queensferry this afternoon, Adams. Gin pennant flying as soon as we are tied up.”

Christopher welcomed the prospect. The gin pennant – an invitation to all ships’ wardrooms to come aboard for a drink – was long overdue. He was looking forward to seeing new faces, talking to different people.

“What’s in port, sir?”

“The Battlecruiser Division, eight of them. Defence and Warrior of the armoured cruisers. Six flotillas of destroyers. That’s all of the respectable ships. The submarines are at their own base and won’t join us. Minesweepers and such are all reservist boats, won’t go poking their noses in with their betters.”

“I might find an hour to go aboard some of the trawlers, sir, especially if the Star boats are based here. Remarkable seamen those Arctic trawler skippers, sir. Rough men but sound – willing to tell an admiral exactly where to put his orders when they didn’t like them!”

The Commander was not certain that was a good thing.

The evening was long and wet, all of the officers rolling into their bunks more or less the worse for wear. It made a pleasant change.

Christopher surfaced with a memory of accepting an invitation to attend a ball of some sorts – the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, he believed. He made his way to the wardroom for breakfast, glanced at the noticeboard, newly decorated with cards of invitation. He was right, there was a ball that evening. It would make a pleasant change, it was years since he had put on his best bib and tucker, his smartest dress uniform. He called his servant to dig it out of his trunk and to set to with smoothing iron and produce a perfect dress shirt as well.

It was quite like old days he thought as he joined the other senior officers in the carriage they had hired, more appropriate than a mere taxicab for such a function.

“I say, Adams, you outshine us all! Full formal ball dress according to Holding’s Pattern Book!”

Christopher smiled deprecatingly, aware as any that the full-tailed cutaway coat over marcella waistcoat and navy-blue breeches with a snowy white neckcloth made a handsome setting for a lean-bodied, athletic young man. He would catch every eye, he much hoped.

No point going to a ball if one was not to partner the prettiest of the young ladies. He might keep an open eye for any eligible young female as well. A wife would make sense soon after the war if he was to become a man of affairs in the business world.

They were announced as they entered the ballroom, in the most old-fashioned way.

“Captain Gilpin-Brown and officers of Black Prince cruiser!”

They proceeded as naval tradition demanded, making a beeline for the refreshments, turned to survey the throng over full glasses.

“Been here before, Adams?”

“Not since October last, sir. I was with Iron Duke then. Little seems to have changed in the better part of a year.”

A few minutes and he realised just how true those words were.

“Mr Adams, you have returned! And as Lieutenant Commander as well! I am so glad to see you again.”

The youngest daughter of the Duke of Blair beamed dewy-eyed at him, her hero returned from the war to her arms.

“Miss Atholl, a pleasure to see you again, ma’am!”

He surveyed her left hand hopefully, saw neither wedding band nor engagement ring. He had to accept that the young lady was still single, and as earnest as ever in her pursuit, it would seem. He could not leave her standing there, begged her to dance, swept her onto the floor, damned his luck as he discovered it to be a waltz with its inevitable close contact.

They made an attractive couple – the young lady handsome by most standards and officially beautiful, being a duke’s daughter; the gentleman the son of a prominent viscount and a serving officer and dressed better than any man in the room. The match was instantly made in the eyes of the elder ladies, they informing the senior gentlemen of the fact. There were no fewer than three admirals present; all had congratulated Christopher on his conquest before the evening was over.

The officers met over breakfast, most of them grinning as Christopher came in.

“When will the announcement be, Adams?”

The Commander was at his jovial best, ho-hoing mightily.

“I wonder, sir, what’s the chance of a posting to the China Station?”

“None, you young dog! You have made a conquest of the dear girl and she is yours to claim. A duke’s daughter, no less! I am surprised you do not have a gold-plated sextant!”

It was a heavy joke, was met with much approbation. The officers could not imagine that a duke was other than rich, envied his good fortune.

Iron Duke came in later in the week and the Black Princes were invited to drinks. Admiral Jellicoe spotted Christopher, enquired of his well-being in the kindest fashion.

“Hear I have to congratulate you, Adams! Blair’s daughter! One of the best families.”

Christopher sent a letter to his father, informing him of the circumstance, received an immediate response, the Mail service still good.

‘Congratulations, my son! Not a suitable naval wife. In many ways ideal for a businessman. Blair’s daughter can open many doors to you, more even than I can. As I remember, she is a bonnie lass – take the plunge and ignore the lack of dowry, we can make up for that.’

He went ashore to speak to the Duke that afternoon, his fate sealed.

Chapter Eight

“Communications trench finished, sir; it runs into the second line opposite your bunker. We shall be using the existing trenches between first and second line, sir. I am keeping the Chinks for another day to cut out more dugouts for us in the front line, sir; being the German second line originally, it needs some modifications. A few hundred coolies can do a quicker and neater job than our men.”

“Very good, Hawkeswill. How do we stand for latrines?”

“We don’t sir. We sit.”

Richard found a laugh, though he would have preferred to strangle the man. He could not stand jolly humour.

“Point taken, Hawkeswill. We are some distance from the facility we used previously, are we not?”

“Half a mile, sir. Not good for a dysentery case. Mind you, ten feet can be too much then. I shall look for a closer site. Not easy, sir. Needs be secluded, not in direct line of sight for shellfire.”

It would be a target that no gunner could resist.

“Appalling thought, Hawkeswill. What you might call a sitting target, eh?”

He thought he might as well join in the infantile humour.

Hawkeswill found it funny, guffawed mightily.

Richard was almost ashamed of himself. The man had turned himself around under pressure at the front, had shown a surprising, pleasing, degree of competence, the narrow-mindedness of years of peacetime garrison service sloughing away and disclosing a soldier rather than a parading mannikin. It was a pity that he still disliked the man.

“Do what you can, if you can.”

“Engineers are due today, sir. We are to have electricity. Light in some of the bunkers and power for drainage pumps. More efficient than the petrol motors, they say. Signals are putting in field telephones this morning. Line to Brigade and another direct to the battery of eighteen pounders on call for our part of the front.”

“Useful to be able to call for support, Hawkeswill. Quicker.”

The Adjutant shook his head.

“No, sir. We can inform artillery of the target. Permission to expend shells has to be obtained from Division. Too short of rounds to waste them, sir.”

There was nothing to say. The comments were all too obvious.

“Lucky it’s no better on the German side, sir. Takes them just as long to set up new shell-filling factories and chemical plants to make the explosives as it does us. Neither side will be able to fire freely before Christmas, sir.”

“Oh, good! We can give each other presents!”

Hawkeswill smirked.

“Heating for the dugouts, Hawkeswill. Are we still using coke?”

“No. Supplies of coal are available, sir. I am doing what I can to build up a stockpile before hard winter comes in. Rules from Division – probably from Corps, in fact – are that fires can only be lit when the temperature falls below forty degrees Fahrenheit, sir. The sole thermometer is in my bunker. In my cool room, to be fair, as I have an oil stove of my own.”

“Your storeroom is ten feet deeper than the rest of the trench, is it not?”

“Yes, sir. Had it deepened to protect my stocks from casual shellfire, sir.”

“What’s the normal temperature in there?”

“Oh, about thirty-five, sir. I would expect it to vary little from that, summer or winter.”

The old Army had its ways, Richard knew. Mostly they were concerned with obeying every rule of military existence, except where they were inconvenient.

“Right. Do we need any coal stores dug while the Chinese are here?”

“No, sir. Did that yesterday. Set up a space for battalion small arms ammunition as well, sir. They have a few good carpenters among them, built racks for us.”

“None of my business, I expect, old chap… How did you fiddle that?”

Hawkeswill tapped his nose.

“Old dog knows a few tricks, sir. You dropped the knapsacks when the men made the assault on the line. That left a greatcoat on each. We lost forty-five dead and thirty seriously wounded – eight of them died since, by the way, sir – and a round dozen of walking wounded who had to go back for a dressing and were held for a day or two. Eighty-seven packs recovered, each with a greatcoat cut and bloodied in action and needing to be replaced, which has been done, sir. Each had a pair of spare boots, also lost in action. Their personal effects have all been sent to next of kin or held pending their return to the battalion, of course. As a result, I had an amount of warm clothing to offer the labour battalion, who have been kept short of their issues. There were also three days rations in each of those packs, recovered and officially destroyed as spoiled, sir. Together with a few other items available in my store, sir, we had more than enough to give the Chinks in exchange for the few extras requested.”

“Well done. I would not have known how to do that.”

“There’s a right way of going about everything in the Army, sir. If you know the wrinkles, that is. We old hands have a few uses, sir. Most of us, that is. One or two – well, a few more than that – are no use at all. Have you had word of Captain Draper, sir?”

“Brigade confirmed that he took ship from Marseille. Desertion if he had not – too big a risk for him to take.”

“He’ll be working out how to swing the lead, I don’t doubt, sir. If he can’t go sick, he will probably volunteer for the general’s staff when he reaches Mombasa.”

Richard shook his head.

“Fotherby knows the general from a long time back. They served in South Africa together and then were in the same garrison in India a few years later.”

“Best way of doing it, sir. The word will go out and Draper will be a marked man. He will be right out at the front for the whole campaign with the medical officers tipped the wink to kick him out of the sickbay whenever he turns up. I could almost feel sorry for him.”

“Could you?”

“No, not really, sir. No use for the yellow, sir. First officer I have ever seen who was shy. Rare among the men as well. Might be a few if conscription comes in. ‘When’ rather. It’s due from January, is it not?”

“Yes. Don’t like it. If a man’s not willing to sign up as a volunteer, what use will he be as a conscript? It’s a bad idea. You watch – we will find all of the dregs of the gutters sent out and proud volunteers having to mix with criminal scum in their companies and platoons. Utterly unfair on good men to dump the trash on them! We have already been told that the bulk of conscripts will be sent out as replacements, not as new battalions.”

Hawkeswill had not considered that aspect before. He was much struck by it.

“Need to have a word with ‘Major O’Grady, I think, sir. He will speak to his sergeants and corporals. Make them ready for any little tricks the new objects think to pull, sir.”

“Sensible. I’ll leave that to you, Hawkeswill. Probably better that I am not involved.”

The Adjutant gave an approving smile.

“That’s the ticket, sir. You can be all innocent if a man is discovered thoroughly beaten or happens to stumble into a latrine pit. Sort of thing that happens, accidentally in the night, in the darkness.”

“Could that happen, you know, falling in…”

Richard was close to retching at the very thought.

“Only once, sir. Amazing what an object lesson that can be. Even the least amenable reprobates find it in themselves to behave after that. Just one of the worst is all it takes. An object lesson, you might say, sir.”

“Good God! I think I might have preferred to retain my innocence, Hawkeswill.”

“The Army has its ways, sir. Been about since Cromwell’s day. Bound to have picked up one or two ideas about how to deal with hard cases.”

“I did not think I was soft, you know, Hawkeswill. Innocent as a new-born lamb, so I am.”

Hawkeswill laughed.

“We all have to learn, sir. Thirty years from now and you will be looking back and laughing at yourself. Field Marshal Baker will be entertained by the callow colonel!”

Another one! Richard wondered how it happened, how it came about that experienced officers were willing to hang on his lips, to treat him as a prodigy. If only they knew!

“What’s the position regarding wire?”

“Difficult, sir. We can’t put wire up until it is clear that we shall not be moving from this location. The battle is still in progress and the High Command believes that there will be a breakthrough any day. Such being the case, it would be wrong, wasteful, to put up wire. I am doing all I can to get hold of some. So is every other adjutant and the supplies are just not available.”

“It makes sense, if one is sat in a chateau thirty miles behind the lines and listening only to the reports brought in by the staff officers who planned the battle and have invested their careers in it.”

“More than that, sir. If this battle fails, French is finished. He knows it, too. He will keep pressing for more action, more pushes as the only way to save himself.”

“Using gas, still?”

Hawkeswill thought not. Gas had been a failure due to the vagaries of the wind on the day of the attack. Where it had been used the chlorine had rolled back on the advancing troops in some places, had formed dense pockets in low-lying areas and had generally done more harm to the British than to the Germans.

“What I have heard, sir, is that future use will most likely be by means of shells fired by the big howitzers. Guaranteed to land it in the German lines then. Same for smoke, sir. Not very effective. Basically the smoke served to identify where the attacking troops were and enabled the Hun to lay down an area barrage. Not well thought through, sir. Among other problems, our troops could not see when they got into the smoke. There will be an issue of proper respirators, gasmasks, as well, within a few months. Most of the troops had no more than a wetted handkerchief. The masks they put out just had a pad of damp cotton wool inside. They did not work well.”

“I was told that the handkerchiefs were wetted with the men’s own urine.”

“That’s right, sir. From the little I know, the ammonia in piss neutralises chlorine. So I was told.”

“God help us all. Hawkeswill. What sort of war is this?”

“It compares well with South Africa, sir. The battles were smaller there but no better run. As for the Crimea! The less said the better!”

“Is there a chance of hot food in the near future?”

“Not if you mean today or tomorrow, sir. By the end of the week, quite possibly. The cookhouses were all packed up, ready to move forward behind the cavalry. Now they have to be set up again and brought back to their previous efficiency, which wasn’t that bad, all things considered.”

In all honesty, it probably was good food for the conditions. Where the general at Division cared, the cookhouses produced recognisable meals. They had to send them a mile or two forward on handcarts then, so they were not hot when they reached the men; that could not be helped.

“Some of the bully beef the men are getting is of very poor quality, Hawkeswill. Fat and gristle more than actual meat in some of the cans I have seen.”

“I have sent samples back to Brigade, sir, and I know they have forwarded them to Division. Whether the complaints have got any further, I don’t know. The whisper is that the contractors who supply the stuff have their hands in the politicians’ pockets – or vice versa, thinking on it. Corruption, in any case. War profiteers are said to be making millions and putting hundreds of thousands into outstretched hands in Westminster.”

“Nothing to be done then. When that amount of money is floating about, forget about honesty. I suppose we could make a list of all the men who are given peerages during the war and shoot them afterwards. Might get back at the biggest thieves that way.”

“Unlikely, sir. Men that rich will own the guns as well.”

“You grow cynical, Hawkeswill! So do I. For wire, keep nagging, if you would. I will see what we can do with what we’ve got.”

Richard took his field glasses into the forward trench and peered carefully out into the wide no man’s land in front of them.

“Caton! Have they any snipers set up yet?”

“None, sir. Any day now, I would bet. A pair of machine guns that sweep across at random – not more than three or four times a day, that’s all. All their concerns seems to be for the big defensive works.”

The fortified bunkers were made stronger each night, displaying more wire and low concrete machine gun nests. They were untouchable other than by artillery.

“A solid thirty yard apron of wire all the way along, sir. If you look carefully, you can see that it’s pegged down tight to the ground by short metal stakes. I would bet there are alarms there as well, like the bells Mr O’Grady set up.”

“Must be routes through it for their own people to get out on working parties. Can’t see them, would never find them at night.”

“No, sir.”

“Forget about trench raids until we work out some way of getting through the wire unheard and quickly.”

Both men knew that to mean never.

“That leaves us with no means of taking offensive action, sir. We will simply have to stay put in cover and act as a garrison.”

The effects on morale would be severe if they left the men idle, doing nothing other than wait.

“Put snipers out, ideally on the other side of our own wire, in hides in no man’s land. The company will be able to make a few kills that way. See if you can get a forward observation post out, manned overnight. If we can get a pattern for their wiring parties, it will be possible to set an ambush, to put up flares and wipe one out. You might be able to put a section forward to throw Mills Bombs over the wire into their trench and then run. Anything to be active, Caton. See what ideas you can come up with.”

Captain Caton wished he had kept his mouth shut. There was such a thing as too much of offensive spirit.

“Yes, sir. Can do.”

Richard assessed the confident smile on Caton’s lips, suppressed his own grin. It was necessary to keep the men active, to make them believe that they were killing the enemy, winning the war.

“Now, Caton. Wire.”

“Barbed wire, sir? We are short of it. Unlike the Hun.”

“Exactly. The sole immediate answer seems to be to use what the Hun has left us. Ideas to me at morning prayers, tomorrow.”

Caton was comforted somehow by Richard’s use of army slang for the morning orders meeting; it suggested that he was a soldier, a professional, not just a jumped-up newcomer given command for being lucky.

Richard spent the rest of the day going from company to company and holding essentially the same conversation. They must keep up the offensive spirit, somehow. He noticed how rarely he had to duck for incoming fire. He doubted there had been a dozen shells fired at them all day and he had heard no call for stretcher-bearers. There was an irregular rattle of machine gun fire, just sufficient to tell soldiers on both sides to keep their heads down. He heard occasional rifle shots, presumably snipers, possibly bored soldiers firing at rats – he had heard that occurred occasionally.

‘Desultory’ was the word, he decided. Just sufficient activity to keep the ball rolling. Somehow, they had to do better than that.

“Gentlemen, we are fighting a war. No fighting – no war! We cannot indulge in trench raids, I know. Therefore we must display other forms of hostility. What do you suggest?”

His own words were thrown back at him. Snipers, attacks on wiring parties, bombing raids – everything he had said on the previous day.

“We really need new weapons, sir.”

“Such as, Captain Harris?”

“Mortars, sir. Little ones, no more than a one or two pound bomb. Quickly set up and dismantled and shifted. Mortars can be very accurate, sir, if the range can be calculated. Saw them used in India. Bigger ones, carried on mules. Their gunners measured the distance to the target – some sort of surveying kit like a theodolite.”

There was an indrawn breath all round the dugout. ‘Theodolite’ was a word unknown to almost all and they were impressed at Harris’ erudition. He preened and continued.

“Saw them drop their bombs to the yard, directly on top of sangars – rifle pits, you know – on the opposite hillside. Utterly precise – one sangar, one bomb and quickly to the next. Those were four inch, I think. Took them a few minutes to lay a baseplate precisely on the horizontal and then set up their tube. Using a small mortar, we could have fixed bases – concrete or brick platforms – for them to quickly set down on. Take post, check the range and rattle out five or six bombs then shut up shop and trot along the trench to do the same somewhere else. Could cause the Hun no end of bad temper, sir.”

“So it could, Harris. Damned good notion! Write it up in proper form, Sandhurst style, and I’ll take it to Brigade. Make sure your name is on the paper. You deserve recognition for your own idea. Same applies to all the rest of you. If you have an idea, present it properly and make good and damned sure it’s properly topped and tailed with your name prominent. Staff will still probably pinch it as their own but at least your name will be heard.”

Most proposals that left battalion had the colonel’s name on them and no other. They were impressed by Richard’s integrity, which was his intention in giving the instruction. Promotions would come from his recommendation in any case and their innovations would have little effect on their wartime careers. They might work the better for thinking they would be recognised in the outside military world.

Richard took the mortar proposal to Brigade, received a brief hearing.

“Can’t be done, Baker. The plum-pudding mortars are to hand and have been tried out. They invite counter-battery fire – they are noisy, give off a lot of smoke and a flash and the projectile is slow, can be observed in the air, they tell me. Effective enough, with a forty pound charge, thereabouts. They look a bit like a toffee-apple, you know. Shove the stick down the barrel, fire the charge at the bottom and duck. The head goes flying off and the ‘stick’, which is made of steel, cartwheels back. Bit dodgy if you get one round your ears. Decision has been made to give them to the artillery. They will set up their batteries of them in saps off the main trench and use them for bombardment according to orders from above. Wire cutters, mostly. Might be for trench bashing as well or counter-battery work if they can locate a minenwerfer in the German trenches. Not available to the infantry.”

“A pity, sir. We could use light artillery right at the front.”

“Stokes mortar is due out from sometime in the late winter. New design and smaller than the plum-pudding. That may well be put in your hands. You will get them if I do. Now, this demand for wire. Bit of a problem there, Baker. Are you sure you won’t be able to mount a push? Another couple of hundred yards might be enough to make a breakthrough, you know.”

“The RFC says the defences are three miles thick, sir. A series of redoubts supporting each other laterally and gunnery emplacements separately. Where there are gaps in their wire, it is to channel us more efficiently in front of the guns. We can be sure they are digging in as well, setting up a new line of trenches.”

Braithwaite nodded gloomily.

“You heard what happened on the second day, directly in front of Loos, Baker?”

Richard had not.

“No, not making a song and dance of it. Trying to keep it quiet. The reserves, which were held too far back to come in on the first day, mounted an attack, directly into unbroken wire. Ripped to pieces. Artillery and machine guns both. The word is that the Germans ceased fire unilaterally, sickened by the butchery, let the remnants pull back with their wounded. There are dozens of bodies still hanging on the wire, they say. Total casualties are in excess of forty thousand, killed and gravely wounded. The body pits are full. French is scrabbling for any advance on the flank that may enable him to bring the cavalry round and in behind the German defensive area.”

“Not a hope, sir. There are no weak points to burst through.”

Braithwaite agreed that was the fact.

“Reality don’t matter too much just at the moment, Baker. General French is in need of a miracle and hopes he can pull one out of the hat. He knows he can win this war if he can just set thirty regiments of cavalry loose and he cannot understand why we are unable to deliver that requirement. He is inclined to think that we in the infantry are deliberately holding back so that he can be seen to fail and be replaced by Haig.”

“Does he not know that we regard Haig as no better than him, sir? Another cavalry general with no knowledge of the what the front looks like. Add to that, word is that Haig is a little shy. Got caught up in the fighting at Le Cateau and discovered just what machine guns could do and has kept well out of their range since. They say he has never seen a trench.”

Braithwaite reluctantly agreed that probably to be true.

“I do not know that he has ever come forward of Headquarters, Baker. The better part of thirty-five miles distant from the line. I understand it makes it easier to confer with the Frogs, staying that far back. Bad enough that I am here, two miles behind the line and unable to get up to see what is happening more than once a month. To be damned near twenty times that distance and never to see the real thing! Beyond me, Baker! Orders are, by the way, that senior officers must not cause unnecessary congestion of the forward lines by showing themselves there. It has been suggested that colonels should be pulled back from the fighting zone, the better to command their men, taking a dispassionate view.”

“Balls to that, sir!”

“Which is what I said, though not in those exact words, Baker. I believe every brigadier made the same response.”

“Is there any prospect of the cavalry being dismounted, sir? The extra men could be useful in the lines, relieving men more frequently. At minimum, could the RHA be released to do something useful?”

“No and no, Baker. The cavalry are vital to the winning of the war and must be held intact, ready to make the great advance. The RHA are, as their name tells us, mobile horse artillery and must again be held back for the war of movement that must inevitably come if only the infantry will do their job.”

“I lost eighty-seven men attempting to do the job in this poorly-planned, ill-thought out cock up the General called a battle, sir. I must of course ask for replacements, hoping they will come through before bloody conscription comes in! Three of them were second lieutenants, in the nature of things.”

“I shall try, Baker. All three of my battalions suffered heavy losses, though nothing like we took at Neuve Chapelle, of course. I have put in for three hundred and fifty men and eight junior officers. Word from Division is that we might get the officers and fifty men before Christmas. The New Year sees conscription coming in. What the plans are then, I do not know for sure. It is not unlikely that conscripts will be given basic training and sent out raw to fill gaps in the ranks. Might be they will see as little as eight weeks before coming out.”

“They will be useless, sir.”

“Up to you to make something of them, Baker. That’s what you are getting. About the only good thing to say will be that you will get a good number of them. You may well end up oversize, in fact.”

Richard was even less impressed – being oversized would simply mean that he had more unwilling bodies to train and make useful, in an environment which was discouraging to the keenest young soldier.

“What will the rules be, sir? Who will we get?”

“Good question! As it stands, and according to current plans – which will probably change daily – it will be single men between twenty and forty years of age. That excludes widowers with children, by the way. Not many of them but they obviously cannot be taken away from their family. There will be exemptions for necessary workers – presumably skilled men in their trades. Conscientious objection will be permitted, if the man can prove it to be legitimate. Religion, I suppose that will be. Might be a few political types who believe the war is wrong, or that all war is wrong – don’t know anything about them, meself! On top of it all, of course, they have to pass a medical.”

“I have been told that more than a half of volunteers to the Boer War failed the medical, sir.”

“So I believe. Figures have been better this time round. Thing is, Baker, a lot of young men will have known they could not pass and have not volunteered as a result. Bringing them up for conscription will be a waste of time because they won’t make the grade. We don’t want them if they are consumptive – every man in the Trenches would catch the disease from them! That must be half a million men on its own. They tell me the disease is rife in the industrial towns of the North Country. I was talking to the MO a few days back and he says he's worried about the men’s well-being as it is. Another cold winter out in their dugouts might break many of the men. Bad chests, you know.”

Richard was dismissive.

“If the problem is known, sir, then the Army should deal with it. More coal. Paraffin heaters. An extra thick jumper for the men to wear. Waterproof galoshes. More blankets. Woollen hats, what do they call them, ‘balaclavas’, isn’t it? Mittens. It is not impossible to keep men warm.”

“Cost, Baker! It would add so much to the bills. Add to that, the generals do not wish to coddle the men and make them soft. They think that hardship makes for better soldiers.”

“That’s ripe, sir! Coming from men sat on their fat arses in chateaux eating seven course dinners every day! If they’re right, then they should all be put out to live in tents and fed bully beef – might make them into useful generals!”

“Calm down, now, Baker! You may well be right. No gain to shouting it out where anybody can hear you. Can’t afford to have you superseded, sent back home as unreliable. I need you to set the example to the brigade, to give us all a lead. Where you go, other officers follow, you know. In fact, if you had not come to me today, I was to call you down, Baker. Awards have just come in. You have another Mention for your trench raid and a DSO for your leadership up to and including Neuve Chapelle. You can put the ribbon up. Might be able to organise an investiture for the Corps sometime in the next month or so. It all adds up. The newspapers will have it today.”

“Give a dog a good name, sir?”

“What? Oh, I see. Clever comment. Don’t think it’s so. Just no alternative – you must be recognised again. Wouldn’t be surprised if you picked up a knighthood in a year or two. You present a bit of a problem, you know. With the VC already, it’s a bit silly to give you a Military Cross. DSO is different, being for leadership as well as gallantry. Can’t just ignore the things you have done, got to find the correct way of noticing them. My congratulations, again, Baker – you know my opinion about you! They have given me a DSO too. I think it’s for being clever enough to have you under my command. Have to say, I am rather pleased!”

“Deserved, sir. You were busy enough last year to have earned more than one medal.”

“Good of you to say so, Baker. We were all up at the sharp end for those few months, were we not? Time for a bite of lunch before you go back up the line. I shall make all of your requests for winter clothing for the men, by the way. Don’t hold your breath waiting for them to turn up!”

A week and carrying parties turned up in the night, reels of wire one between two. Thousands of iron stakes followed accompanied by wooden-headed mallets, hopefully less noisy than sledgehammers. The Adjutant supervised all, rubbing his hands with glee.

“New style war wire, sir. Not the farmers’ stuff.”

Richard inspected the finger-long, pencil-thick barbs, cut to a razor-sharp diagonal point.

“Vicious! How are the men to handle this?”

“New gloves, sir. Leather with metal plates to palms and separately to each finger joint.”

“Good. Sergeant Major!”

O’Grady was there, nodding thoughtfully.

“Set in coils, sir. A post every six feet. I shall take a count, sir, see how many layers we can set out. Silently in the night and with no lights… I shall put out markers, sir. Canes stuck in the ground at the proper points. Stretcher-bearers waiting in the trench immediately behind them.”

They would lose men in the wiring parties. Random machine gun fire, possibly a bombardment if the Hun picked up movement. Men would slip as well, rip themselves on the barbs.

It took a week and ten men, all injuries handling the wire, two of them dead to blood-poisoning, the others sent back with deep gashes to arms and abdomen.

“Eight lucky men got a Blighty One, sir.”

“Is that how they see it now, Paisley?”

“It’s what they are saying, sir, which is not to mean that is what they are actually thinking. You will not find any of our men deliberately cutting themselves, sir. Nor do I know of any battalion where it has happened for sure. Talked about, that’s all.”

“And if we get a hard winter, Paisley?”

“God alone knows, sir. I do not.”

The next letter to Primrose asked if she knew of one of the committees sending comforts to the troops. A fortnight brought a response.

’I have gone beyond the bounds of good taste, my dear, and have achieved much! Nothing like vulgarity for getting results! A mention to the ladies of Mayfair that Colonel Baker VC’s 8th Beds Battalion was without a kind sponsor brought immediate action. You will have to attend some sort of gala function when you come back on leave, I do not doubt, and display your blushing self to the old tabbies and young predators. In return, the first parcels were put on the boat this morning with arrangements made to expedite their travel. I am told they will be with you inside the week.’

The remainder of the letter was as ever, with the exception that Zeppelins had been observed over England. This was very shocking, as he no doubt appreciated. She had almost lost her temper with one dear dowager who had commented that they now knew what the troops were facing, were sharing the hazards of war with them.

He wished he might have been there.

There was little unusual in that, he often wished he was at her side in England.

The parcels arrived, one for each in the battalion with a few dozen extras, counting being imprecise at a distance. Richard was amused that officers received the same as the men. Hawkeswill was not at all sure that was correct, felt that they should not refuse the dear ladies’ bounty.

“No doubt they knew no better, sir.”

Richard was sure Primrose knew exactly what she was doing, saw no need to say so. He took his own box into the dugout.

“What have we got?”

They inspected the box, appreciating the thought that had gone into the selection.

“Two half-pound bars of chocolate, sir. Everybody will like that. One hundred cigarettes, Senior Service, one of the better brands. Four ounces of pipe tobacco. The smokers can exchange that between them. One balaclava helmet, thick wool, best quality. Two pairs of thick stockings.”

They had spent at least two pounds on each box.

“I still don’t smoke, Paisley.”

“I know, sir. Don’t worry. I’ll look after the tobacco for you, sir.”

Word spread somehow that the parcels had been organised by the colonel’s lady. The men cheered her.

‘Major O’Grady was appreciative of the benefit to his battalion.

“No end of good, it has done, sir. Not for what it was so much, though it was very welcome, but for the ladies caring for them. A good smoke and a lump of chocolate to chew on is welcome. Christmas coming and the weather getting raw. The men are pleased with the balaclavas under the cold tin helmets.”

The Army had at last organised protective helmets for the front-line infantry. Opinion was varied on their effectiveness and many of the men had begrudged wearing them, being an innovation and therefore probably not necessary. Richard put his on unfailingly, setting the example and ordering all other officers to do the same.

“Problem with Mr Wincanton, sir. The helmets coming in just the one size, his tends to slip down and sit on his ears, sir. Perhaps the balaclava will help it stay on top of his head.”

Richard was not surprised that Wincanton’s head was smaller than most – there was nothing to fit inside it, after all.

“How did he do in the push, Hawkeswill? I cannot remember noticing him.”

“He was where he should have been, sir. At the front, waving a damned great big walking stick vaguely and shouting to the men to keep their line. He went in first to his section of trench. Cannot ask for more than that. He fell over, jumping in, but they picked him up quickly. Apparently he found four Huns in a dugout and pulled them out at the point of his revolver, to the approval of his own platoons.”

“Well done the boy. I thought he might have gone wandering off in the wrong direction.”

“No, sir. Better put him up to full lieutenant, sir. His men find him funny. They like him.”

“Glad somebody does! Put the papers in, Hawkeswill. How far does it have to go these days?”

“Division will give the effective approval, sir. If they agree, it’s rubber stamp from the War Office. Same for lieutenant to captain. Major has to be approved at Corps and anything higher is handled in London.”

“Good. What have you in mind for the conscripts?”

“A choice of their own platoons, separate for training purposes, or feeding them into the existing company structure, to fill in the gaps. I don’t like the idea of keeping them apart from the men. Makes them pariahs. My advice, sir, is to treat them like any other replacement coming up the line.”

“I’ll have a word with Major Vokes. Unless he has strong opinions otherwise, that’s what we shall do.”

“I expect most of them will fit in, sir. If they don’t, we can make them.”

Chapter Nine

The dinner party was, Simon imagined, a great success.

His uncle took pride of place, having seniority in station over all present. Simon took the next chair, a baronet’s wife on one side, a knight’s lady on the other. As heir to the viscountcy, he supposed he had some social standing. Being the proud fiancé, he must also be given prominence; add to that, he had some rank and good decorations. The combination made him visible and valuable to Mrs Parrett, concerned to increase her already high standing in the County. The Lord Lieutenant was not present, to her regret, she could not yet call on the very highest to grace her table; that would come, she did not doubt, when her new son-in-law acceded to his uncle’s honours.

The one great worry, clouding her triumph, was that dear Simon insisted still on sailing off to war, risking his valuable life. An early wedding, followed, she much trusted, by a rapid pregnancy and there would be an heir in his line, a grandson to keep the title in the Parrett family. She must hope that he could achieve another leave, although he had said that he expected to be many months aboard ship now, could not look for a second spell of rest in the next twelvemonth. He would be able to pay fleeting visits, a day or two at a time, totally inadequate for a wedding. The war was a nuisance, interfering with the important things in life!

Mrs Parrett was a little chagrined that she was stepping up on the back of her youngest child, rather than her own endeavours, consoled herself that dear Alice had always been her favourite. A pity that her husband had never been willing to work for a title; she was sure that he could have done so, had no doubt they could have found the money involved, the family had pots of it, after all!

Two of the invited families had sent late apologies, had just gone into mourning for sons lost in a flare-up at the Front. Both had been lieutenants in the Suffolks. She wondered if her eldest son, recently joined the regiment, might have been involved. They had received no telegram, had no rational cause for worry, and she was not to disturb her peace of mind with such gloomy speculations. All was well in her world, as it always had been and must ever continue.

The ladies withdrew and the men clustered around the head of the table, the decanters circulating.

“What have you heard in London, my lord? Even so close as Ipswich, we pick up little of the latest information.”

“The Battle of Loos is winding down, Mr Parrett. Fifty thousand losses and almost nothing gained. French cannot last. It is a matter of a very few weeks now while the government tidies all and decides who must go where. Haig is being consulted, of course, and will have the final say on who is promoted, who will be sent away among the generals. No names available yet.”

He had said very little. It was more than the newspapers had to offer.

“There was talk of advances made, territory held, my lord.”

“Much talk. Little eventuality, I fear. The newspapers are no longer to be relied upon. Perhaps the only accurate items are the lists of names.”

“Fifty thousand dead and wounded! How many of them will be fit ever to return to service, my lord?”

“That is unclear. More than twenty thousand died. The machine guns and artillery took a heavy toll. Of the wounded, at least one half will never fully recover. Many are suffering from gas, their lungs impaired for life, a shortened life in all probability.”

“What swine the Huns are to use poison gas!”

Viscount Perceval chose not to enlighten them; they would not understand how it could come about that British gas had caused the bulk of such casualties, possibly all. He did not know that the Germans had released any gas in that battle.

“What of the sea, Captain Sturton? Have we regained command of the oceans?”

“No, sir. The submarine is the menace. We have no way of discovering submarines under the surface. We will see far more losses to the boats over the coming years.”

Conversation became increasingly gloomy as they concluded that the country was close to losing the war.

“Is there a way to win, Captain Sturton?”

“Not in France, sir. New weapons, and I have no idea what they might be, could possibly bring a breakthrough. At present, there is stalemate. The defence is stronger than the offence. If there is to be a victory, then it must take place elsewhere than in Flanders.”

The Viscount offered an insight.

“Germany is short of foodstuffs for her large population. As are we, of course. We can bring wheat from America, provided the submarines do not sink too much. Germany has no outside source, unless the Kaiser can take the whole of Poland and the Steppes and pull harvests from them. Our blockade may be the answer.”

“To starve the Hun rather than to defeat them in open war, you say, my lord.”

“It seems so, sir.”

It was no way to fight a war. Where was the honour?

“Can the cavalry not be released, my lord? Fifty regiments of horse must turn the war in our favour.”

“The cavalry has no part to play in France, sir. They are irrelevant, in fact. The war is between artillery and infantry. Horse has nothing to say.”

That was an obvious nonsense. Cavalry won wars. The infantry was to hold the ground they took; the artillery played its role in sieges and in set-piece battles. That had been the case since the days of the Iron Duke. How could war have changed now?

“We have invented barbed wire and the machine gun, sir. The two between them have made the horse irrelevant. Add to that, the power of modern great guns and you will see that we now have an entirely new warfare. The cavalry is all about the offensive. It is the defence that holds the new power. It is worth noticing, of course, that the French cavalry achieved nothing at Waterloo. One might consider the Charge of the Light Brigade as well.”

They could not understand his last comment. The Charge had been a magnificent example of true British heroism. It had succeeded in its failure! The last statement was often made, they knew – and few chose to question it or to attempt to understand it.

They became almost impatient with Lord Perceval – England must win. Anything else was inconceivable. The Empire On Which The Sun Never Set – always with capital letters – was not to be defeated by a mere crippled Kaiser. It was up to government and military to remember that reality and take the correct course of action, which must be there to be found.

“Then how do we win in France, my lord?”

“We wait, sir. Eventually, one trusts, the blockade of Germany will force them to desperation. At that point they must talk or they must mount a massive attack. If they go onto the offensive, they may well take ground; they will lose hundreds of thousands of irreplaceable men.”

“Years of stalemate on the Western Front, my lord! That is not the course of honour! We must advance!”

Simon gave an appraising glance at the little, fat, red-faced sixty year old who had never risked his own precious life in war, took pains not to allow his contempt to show. It was easy for those at home to shout for the path of duty and honour as the sole way forward.

“It is better than futile deaths on the wire, sir. The trenches are impregnable under current conditions. Create new weapons and it may be possible to breach them. At the moment, it is not.”

They joined the ladies, found them discussing the poverty of goods available in the better stores. They did not know what the world was coming to, it seemed.

“Captain Sturton! How long will it be before these appalling submarines are swept from the seas?”

“Many years, ma’am. We have yet to discover the means of destroying them. Our sole hope is to keep them at a distance by patrol. We have too few ships to provide safe passage of the Atlantic.”

“I had always thought Britannia to rule the waves, Captain Sturton!”

“One, perhaps, of many delusions we suffered before this war, ma’am. We are doing our very best, I assure you. It is not impossible that the policies of governments before the war will be shown to have been misguided. The dreadnought is not the be all and end all of sea power, it would seem.”

That was a statement akin to blasphemy. The ladies stared and rapidly turned the conversation to topics less distressing.

The party broke up eventually and the remaining gentlemen found themselves downstairs alone, a last whisky to hand.

“Saying that the dreadnought might not be the greatest of warships, capable of winning the war for us, Simon! Shocking!”

The Viscount shook his head in mock horror.

“What have you against the great battleships, Simon, other than being a small ships man yourself?”

“Rusting piles of magnificence, sir, sat in Scapa Flow and doing what? How have the battleships contributed to this war, sir? They are a liability, hidden away from submarine and minefield and doing nothing to kill Germans. That, after all, is what the war is about, and the overwhelming number of our battleships have never so much as seen a Hun. They cost money and waste manpower and do nothing. They are not even a threat, because we all know they will never sail unless the German High Seas Fleet moves first. They are in a defensive role, solely. If we fear the High Seas Fleet, then we should build more submarines and place them to patrol off the Kiel Canal. The best thing we could do with the battleships is to disarm them, to send their guns to where they could be useful. Put them aboard railway trains behind the Trenches, there to provide the poor men in the lines with the artillery they need.”

“A radical proposal, Simon. I fear that the politicians could never accept it. They have spent tens of millions on building the battleship fleet – they cannot now say it is useless. It has to be the weapon that will win us the war, at least as far as the newspapers are concerned.”

They retired, wondering in just how many other houses in the country the same words were being said and ignored by the nation’s leaders.

Simon returned to the war refreshed, knowing that his next long leave would see him married. He rather thought he would welcome that. He was called to Commodore Tyrwhitt as soon as he appeared aboard the depot ship.

“Your Canning has risen in the world, as expected, Sturton. Gone in command of Lairgs, in one of the Queensferry flotillas. You have a solid man in his place, Strachan, come down from Scapa, senior in a light cruiser flotilla leader there. Knows the work in theory and a good seaman – you know what the weather is like up there, half a gale more often than not. Scots, but not uncouth with it. Malcolm is a commissioned engineer now and has responsibilities in the half-flotilla – they will report to him before going to the dockyard with their troubles. I expect him to stay with you for a year or so before being given another stripe and put into a light cruiser.”

“Glad to hear that, sir. Malcolm is one of the best.”

“So I have noticed from your personal reports on the man. Now, the yard has given you a better searchlight and has improved your wireless installation. You should be able to contact Harwich from the Dutch borders. As far as an aircraft gun is concerned, they have taken away your Maxim, which is a bit on the old-fashioned side, these days. They have replaced it with a sort of lashed-up experiment, to my mind. It is set up for high-angle use and can be fired as part of the broadside as well – a dual mounting. Thing is, Sturton, it’s French! A Hotchkiss cannon, a bit less than a two incher, they call it a thirty-seven. About a two pounder. The shells come in strips which the loader feeds in. They fire automatically once in. Eight at a time. If the loader could get them in fast enough, I should imagine you could fire thirty or forty rounds a minute.”

“That will demand a big ready-use locker, sir, and a magazine all of its own.”

“It will, too. Both have been provided, and extra men. Messing them will not be easy, I should imagine. Give your new First something to do! Pick up your rounds at Dunkerque, I would expect; they will come from French factories, which I do not like! Always a risk, relying on foreigners! You can expect somewhat longer patrols this winter, Sturton, going out for three or four days at a time. Trying to keep more ships out as a policy. Anti-submarine work, keeping them down all day, every day and hoping to exhaust them. Might make mistakes if they’re tired.”

So would the destroyermen, Simon thought, making no comment.

“Depot ship may be busy, sir. We will lose men to sickness and accident. You know what our messdecks are like. Put youngsters into them for days unbroken, sleeping in wet bunks and hammocks, and they will likely become ill; the older men may fare no better. There will be a need for replacement hands, sir. It will be as well for the new bodies to be given an amount of training before they come aboard.”

“You think that should take place on the depot ship? Might make sense. Give me a few days with that one. I’ll put it to my staff, see if they can come up with anything. It has been proposed that you should have an extra sublieutenant to act as spare hand. Might be able to give your officers an extra few hours of sleep once or twice when you were out.”

Simon was not entirely convinced.

“No cabin space. They would have to hot bunk, like the submarines do. Not entirely popular, sir.”

“Four men to three bunks – you could not expect the First to surrender his cabin. They might not enjoy sharing the same blankets, I will admit… The horrors of war, Sturton! Do you want another officer?”

“A new sub with sea time on the boats as a midshipman? Could be immediately useful, sir. As an alternative, one of the wartime specials, a boy with yachting experience or from the trawlers, could learn the trade quickly and provide an immediate replacement for losses in the half-flotilla.”

Tyrwhitt was only partly in favour of the proposal.

“Got two or three of that sort hanging about the place, Sturton. Not sure what to do with them. I’m more inclined to put them aboard the minesweeping squadron. One of them has a North Country accent you could cut with a knife! Not what you want in a wardroom! Another speaks well, within reason, but is the son of a fellow on the coast here who owns half a dozen small drifters, coastal fishery. The boy left school very early and has been five years on his father’s boats, a skipper this last two years – on a boat with a man and two boys as the whole of the crew! The third is more likely, sounds the right sort, been crewing on his father’s yacht for years. Do you want to talk to them, before I set them aboard?”

Simon was lent the use of an office and the three were lined up, sent in one after the other.

Eccles had a strong Lancashire accent, was short and wiry, had been eight years on trawlers out of Fleetwood. He had been a foundling, he said, scrabbling for a living around the dock. He had come to the master’s attention when he had dived into the harbour to rescue his daughter’s puppy which had fallen in – he had had no choice, the little girl was crying so. He had progressed rapidly from boy to deckhand to mate and then skipper, almost in successive years. When the war had come, the master had arranged for him to become a midshipman on a reserve trawler. He had been made sublieutenant within six months and was now at a loose end.

Simon was impressed with the young man – he had no idea of his age, thought he might be rising twenty – and put a tick against his name.

“Destroyer duty for you, Mr Eccles. Pack your duffle and be ready for your movement order.”

“Thank’ee, sir. What ship?”

“Lightning, most likely. One of my half-flotilla certainly.”

Travis, in command of Lightning, was less concerned with social niceties than most, possibly because of his boxing prowess.

Paton-Rees came in next and left within five minutes. The boy was a languid and superior sort of chap, was sure he would like to go to sea, had terribly enjoyed his father’s yacht, had taken the wheel once or twice himself. He had spent his days as a midshipman ashore, assigned to the dockyard at Chatham where he had been very useful, busy all day with running for the Admiral. He had been made sublieutenant quickly in recognition of his talents, was now looking to get some time in at sea in order to be made up again.

“Scapa Flow might be best for you, Mr Paton-Rees. I am afraid there is no space for you in my half-flotilla.”

Mudgely came in, turning sideways to pass through the door. He was massive, well over six feet and disproportionately broad at the shoulder, barrel-chested and very little belly. Simon glanced at the brief notes he had been given, saw that he was eighteen, might well not have finished growing. He was light on his feet, not at all ponderous.

“Take a seat, Mr Mudgely.”

He noticed the man to settle slowly, ready for a chair to break underneath him.

“You have been skipper of a drifter this last three years, it says.”

“Yes, sir. One of my father’s boats. I could not settle to the classroom, sir and wanted to be doing. As soon as I could read and write, my father let me go out on the drifters. I volunteered in August of last year and was made a midshipman and given one of the hired craft in the harbour here, running between shore and the anchored boats. Last month I was told I was a sublieutenant and must go aboard a ship. I would like a destroyer, sir.”

“You have one, Mr Mudgely. Report aboard Lancelot at soonest. I will look for you to get your watchkeeper’s certificate as quickly as possible. You may have to learn some of the basics of navigation to do that.”

“I know a little already, sir. Sat down with the books when the winds blew too hard, sir, and I had to find something to do. Most of the lads would be sat in the shore boozers, sir, throwing away the money they worked so hard for. Always seemed daft to me. Add to that, when they got a skinful on board, some of them would always start fighting, for the fun of it. One or two would always want to take a swing at me, for being a big target. No point to that, sir. If I backed off, they would call me yellow. If I swung a punch and damned near killed one of them, they would whisper ‘bully’ behind my back. So, before too long, I kept clear of the drinking entirely and that meant I had to find something to do.”

“The tribulations of being very big, Mr Mudgely! It sounds as if it may have made you even more useful to me. Conditions will be rough at sea. You will have work to do and will be welcome aboard.”

Simon reported back to Tyrwhitt, told him he had accepted the giant and the Lancashire trawlerman.

“The third, sir, Paton-Rees, did not display the makings of a destroyerman. He might make a flag lieutenant, provided you can find an admiral who is not too demanding in his choice of flunkeys.”

“Pity! I hoped you would take him off my hands. Are you sure that big fellow will fit into your little wardroom?”

“I’ll lend them a shoehorn, sir.”

Simon ran up from the boat to board Lancelot, Packer at his heels As always he enjoyed the welcome of the pipes, the shrill whistles announcing his presence to all aboard.

A short, stocky, heavily bearded lieutenant saluted and introduced himself.

“Strachan, sir.”

He used the Scots pronunciation, ‘Strawn’, Simon noted. He had met an Ulsterman who pronounced both syllables, had wondered which sort his First would be.

“My pleasure, Mr Strachan. How long have you been aboard?”

“Brought her from the yard at Chatham, three days ago, sir.”

“Good. No dents as well!”

“Not one, sir!”

They exchanged grins, each deciding they would find it easy to work together.

“We have a spare hand coming aboard, Mr Strachan. The expectation is that we will be at sea on patrol for several days at a time over the winter. An extra body will be able to provide relief, allow for a bit more sleep occasionally. He has not got his certificate yet, for lack of opportunity. I think he may prove very capable. He is a little larger than average.”

“Beg pardon for contradicting you, sir. If that is him in the drifter coming over now, he’s bloody enormous!”

They observed the mass coming towards them.

“Better tell the wardroom steward to get some extra supplies in, Strachan.”

They watched Mudgely swarm up the ladder, salute the quarterdeck and announce his presence to the rating on duty at the accommodation port.

“Yes, sir. Captain has just come aboard, sir.”

Mudgely stepped forward.

“Reporting to join, sir.”

“Welcome aboard, Mudgely. Mr Strachan is First and will settle you in.”

He left the pair, walking briskly to his cabin, stopping to inspect the new gun in place of the Maxim. The Commissioned Gunner, Mr Rees, was there, exercising the three-man crew.

“’Morning, Mr Rees! Good leave?”

“Very, thank you, sir. Finally have my wife settled in our own house here in Harwich, sir. Managed to buy my own little place.”

“That’s good, Mr Rees. I became engaged to marry, myself. Probably have a wedding in our next long leave – which won’t be for some little time, I suspect!”

Rees offered his congratulations, staring in awe at Mudgely as he was led to the wardroom.

“New sub, Mr Rees. Show him round the guns, please. I think we will find him to be a good seaman – years on the drifters, so he is used to the North Sea. In the nature of things, he will know nothing of guns or torpedoes.”

“Huge, is he not, sir. Carries himself like a seaman, sir. Good school, the drifters. A man brought up on them should know his way about any small ship.”

“So I thought, Mr Rees. What do you think of the new gun?”

“Rapid fire, sir. Over a thousand yards, a useful weapon. Short range, but so is most of our work. I am not sure what it will do as an anti-aircraft weapon. Difficult to take an aim. A bit slow on its mounting. On balance, sir, considering that we have seen an aeroplane no more than twice since I have been aboard, it should be a useful gun. Better than the Maxim, for sure.”

“Good. What of ready-use?”

Rees pointed to a far larger locker, on the centreline behind the gun.

“Additional magazine space belowdecks, sir. Three gunners – layer, loader and third hand whose job is to keep the rounds coming into the loader’s hands. Explosive shells. Contact fused, for lack of time to set fuses in rapid fire.”

“Should do some damage to a small ship’s upperworks in close action. The gunlayer will have to use his discretion, especially in night action.”

“Yes, sir. Experienced hand, sir. Norton. Twenty year man, sir.”

Norton came to the salute, showed himself to be older than most aboard, well into his thirties, still seeming fit and competent.

“South Africa, Norton?”

“HMS Terrible, sir. Was one of her gun party ashore, sir. Better part of a twelvemonth, that was, chasing about with a six inch pulled by three dozen of oxen, sir. Didn’t know whether I were a gunner or a farmer, half the time, sir. China Station since, sir, and a few years on the East African coast on Challenger, sir. Scapa on Royal Sovereign, sir, last ship. Had the chance to come to the destroyers, sir. Took it for being better than polishing the brass at Scapa.”

“You can expect to be busy here, Norton. The gun is new – see what can be done with it.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Simon wondered if Norton might be too much set in the ways of the big ships, needing orders rather than thinking for himself as was demanded on the destroyers. It might be necessary to shift him across to one of the four inchers instead. Give him a chance and then speak with Rees – he would not condemn the man without giving him the opportunity to show what he could do.

They waited for orders, exercising the hands, fitting in the new bodies who had replaced men gone away on promotion or taking courses.

Dunkerque again, reaching the port as a storm blew in, sheltering for a day and then out into its tail end.

“Out to the Dutch border, showing ourselves along the coast in daylight. Then it’s off to the Broad Fourteens and pick up the neutral convoy route from Orford Ness to Amsterdam. Show our faces there and work our way to Dutch waters and then back to the Belgian coast again. Repeat and go home. Make revolutions for twelve knots, reducing expenditure of oil. Four knots in the hours of darkness.”

Simon hesitated for a second or two, glancing around the captains and first lieutenants squeezed into his cabin.

“We must keep a good lookout at all times. At night especially, they must use their ears. Try to pick up the sound of submarines charging their batteries, which I understand they must do for hours every night. If you pick up a sub, fire star shell and all ships will respond. Please, do not ram submarines. They have pressure hulls which are a damned sight more robust than ours. You may sink a sub. You will certainly put your own boat in the yard for six months. We are to be provided with depth bombs, one day. Until then, gunfire to drive them under and patrol to keep them down until they have the choice of suffocate or come up and fight on the surface.”

“Are we likely to get these hydrophone things, sir?”

“When they have made them more useful, yes. Campbell-Barnes. At the moment, they have to be hung over the side of a ship making no more than steerage way. The ideal is at a dead stop, I am told. Setting myself up as a target for a torpedo is not my idea of fun.”

The others agreed. It was not a good habit to get into.

“What is our policy for storm, sir?”

“As long as we can man the guns, we stay out. If we cannot keep men on deck, we can be of no use and must make our way back. Keep a sharp lookout for floating mines. Gales will snap mooring wires, I am told. The location of minefields, by the way, is one of our functions. The Admiralty is not entirely certain that it has located all fields accurately.”

They were not entirely happy to hear that. Working inshore, they were always in proximity to minefields. The suggestion that they might just be a mile or two distant from where they were shown on the charts was not popular.

“I thought we had good knowledge of the location of the German fields, sir.”

“We have, Captain Williams! It is our own they are worried about, having decided they do not entirely trust the navigation of the reservist officers aboard the minelayers.”

“That’s a bit rich, sir!”

“It is, isn’t it. The Admiralty never really approved of mines, it would seem, and did not pay too much attention to them last year when they were being laid.”

“And the right hand ended up not knowing what the left hand was doing, again, sir.”

“As you say, gentlemen. Again. Now then, how were you equipped in the yard? Lancelot has a thirty-seven mil Hotchkiss, as you may have noticed. I have not inspected you, for lack of time, but you all seem to have something different.”

Lightning had been given a short-barrelled six pounder quickfirer with no capacity for aircraft. Lynx had a two pounder pompom with high angle capability. Lucifer was proud possessor of a three incher, high angle only.

“Twelve pound shells, sir, and the fuse to be set by the loader, which much reduces the rate of fire, I suspect. Firing blanks in practice we have been lucky to get off two rounds a minute. The layer has a telescope which enables him to estimate height – my Gunner says it’s very clever. He shouts the setting, the loader puts it on and they can fire, estimating the laying off for speed of the aeroplane. The Gunner says it might work for a plane at height – five thousand feet or so.”

“The only aeroplanes I have seen were lower than that, Captain Campbell-Barnes. Far lower.”

“I know, sir. I am not entirely certain it is an excellent gun. Add to that, it is difficult to allow for pitch and roll, which can be extreme on a small ship, as you know, sir.”

“Make me a report, please. I will submit it as a matter of urgency. The Admiralty will be unwilling to take you back into the yard to replace a gun you have only just had fitted. A failed experiment will be the best approach. Has your Gunner been able to lay his hands on anything useful?”

“Probably, sir. I take pains not to enquire too closely.”

“Me too. My own man has been able to pick some useful stuff.”

“Hence the seaplane that was shot down, sir. By fire coming from your waist, not from the bridge Lewis Guns!”

“Lewises are all very well, but they are short range weapons. My man was able to pick up something with a higher muzzle velocity. I asked for an issue, but they are being kept back for use in some sort of new armoured car that is being made. A special job, very secret.”

“Ah! That will be the ‘tanks’, sir. My father heard of the project – it’s using up almost all of the armour plate being manufactured in the country just now. Damned nuisance! Some sort of landship, so he was told. Don’t make a lot of sense to me. Might be the thing to bash through the trenches. Something needs to be!”

More than that, they did not know. There was a new weapon coming, of some sort.

The storm let up for a day, long enough for them to be well out to sea and was followed by another, heavier gale, out of the southwest and determined to drive the small ships ashore on the Dutch coast.

Simon signalled for the half-flotilla to make for Harwich, independently. He did not like the thought of trying to enter the open harbour at Dunkerque with a gale beating in from astern. He stood on the bridge, Mudgely and McCracken next to him, while the coxswain remained at the wheel, keeping Lancelot head on to the storm for hour after hour. The bows were submerged more often than not, white water beating against the bridge. The ship rolled incessantly. Every man aboard tied himself to a stanchion, where his work permitted, or gripped hard on the nearest solid rail while working with the other hand. Engineer Lieutenant Malcolm stayed on watch, thankful that Lancelot was oil not coal, adjusting revolutions every minute as the orders were called, trying to maintain a little more than steerage way, to crawl towards Harwich and waiting all the while for a rogue pitch that might heave the propellers out of the water to race in thin air, possibly to break from their shafts. A stoker knelt by each propeller clutch, doing nothing other than wait for the order to disengage the shaft, almost motionless, hour after hour, bumped and battered as the ship rolled, knowing that he must be able to act in the second the order was shouted to him.

There was three feet of water in the messdecks, waves travelling end to end with the pitch. The men below sat up on bunks and tables above the water, as much as they could be. There was nowhere else for them to go on the small ship. Inevitably, some swallowed splashes of salt water, others became seasick. A very few hours saw a flotsam of vomit on top of the flood. A few more hours and they discovered that the heads were unavailable – they could hardly reach them and were unable to flush them over the side. More solids accrued in the water.

The compartment stank.

Fourteen hours and Lancelot reached calmer seas, closer inshore, was able to increase speed. Six hours more and she fought her way to a buoy at Harwich, using the wireless to announce her presence. The seas were too rough to put off a boat and she waited in isolation for another full day.

“Clean ship, Number One.”

Strachan, who had spent the storm in the wardroom with Waller, unable to reach the bridge, saluted and acknowledged the order. The three from the bridge sat down wearily, took a hot drink, sought a bunk.

Lightning, Lynx and Lucifer steamed in over the day, all more or less storm damaged. All three had lost their mast and the radio aerial attached.

Simon surfaced after six hours of sleep – he was still tired but was incapable of sleeping more than a few hours at a stretch, watchkeeping habits totally ingrained.

He found the coxswain on deck, supervising the clean up and watching hands painting on the forward deck.

“Down to bare metal at the bows, sir. Like sandpaper, the waves were.”

“Have you cleaned out the forecastle?”

Simon had not been to the messdecks, knew what he would see there.

“Scuttles open, sir. Hosed out the lot. Never get the bunks and hammocks dry, sir. Lost some blankets overboard, sir. Put in a requisition to Stores, sir.”

Stores would refuse the order on the grounds that Lancelot had had a full issue less than two years previously. To get anything, he would have to go to Tyrwhitt.

“Commodore’s barge, sir.”

The coxswain organised the reception and sent word to the wardroom. All officers were on deck, fully dressed, before Tyrwhitt came alongside.

“Carry on, Sturton. Must be busy. Bad storm!”

“Severe gale, sir, and found us closer than I liked to the Dutch coast. Managed to claw off without entering their waters.”

“That’s the important thing, Sturton! How does it come about that you alone retained your mast?”

Simon pointed.

“Extra preventer stays, sir. Mr Mainwaring shipped them in readiness for the winter storms.”

“Well done, that man!”

“I haven’t had a full set of reports yet, sir. Lucifer lost one man, a gunlayer who was swept overboard trying to secure the ready use to their new three inch. The gun itself seems to have taken damage, or the bandstand it’s set upon has. Bloody stupid thing to set aboard a destroyer, sir. Impossible to aim off a rolling, pitching platform and how often is a destroyer stable?”

“Good question, Sturton. Three ships to the yard. Lynx and Lightning can go in to mine; Lucifer must return to Chatham. How do you stand?”

“Lost blankets overboard, sir, and a number of hammocks used to protect the forward four inch, sir. Most of them will never be usable again.”

“Put in your requisitions, I will speak to Stores.”

It was clear from Tyrwhitt’s tone that he did not believe Simon. He would support his own man, however.

“Five days, Sturton. I need you back out on station. What’s your opinion?”

“Light cruisers, sir. The new ships are as fast, almost, as a destroyer and better seaboats. Bigger targets for a torpedo, I will accept. Far better suited to North Sea waters in winter.”

“I agree. Haven’t got them, can’t do it.”

“Trawlers, perhaps, sir? A flotilla of six to support each other. Designed for rough weather. Slow. Should be able to catch a submarine.”

“They would be ripped to pieces by the big new German destroyers. Those things are damned near the size of a light cruiser!”

“Accepted, sir. Small ships can’t work out of the harbour at Dunkerque, sir. Whatever you decide to use, they will have to be based on Harwich. I must imagine the Dover Patrol had difficulties these last few days.”

“Shocking bad harbour to work from with a gale up-Channel. Word is that they were scattered over half of the southern North Sea. Harwich has its advantages!”

One of those advantages was that Ipswich was less than an hour distant. Simon was able to achieve a day away from the ship.

Chapter Ten

The battle of Loos petered out, drifting into desultory exchanges of machine gun fire and brief artillery hates, killing a few men occasionally, achieving nothing.

The war was far hotter to the rear where the generals and the staff and London sought to pass the blame to each other.

General French blamed all of his juniors in turn – they had misunderstood his orders, probably intentionally, had placed the reserves far behind the point he had demanded, had failed to unleash the cavalry, had permitted too short a bombardment. The lieutenant generals in command of the corps that had failed to break through blamed French for launching an ill-prepared, poorly planned battle; simultaneously, they berated the major generals in charge of their divisions for failing to push forward hard enough. The major generals unanimously claimed that the fault lay with the staff who had not planned the battle properly; they then blamed their brigadiers for not fighting the battle correctly on the ground. The brigadiers had no doubt the staff had let them down but gave their colonels a rocket for not making the advances laid down for their battalions.

The colonels had nobody to blame and suffered in official silence. All who had influence wrote Home to complain.

Richard informed Primrose of all that had befallen the battalion, including the casualties, more than a tenth of his men lost to him, dead or too much wounded ever to return to the front. He mentioned that he had now lost six second lieutenants, two lieutenants and one captain, the junior six all dead having marched into the machine guns in the initial assault and tidying up later. He continued in indignation.

‘Wincanton, you will be pleased to hear, was unharmed, having led his men from the front, as was proper, and been first of his company into the German front line. I am informed that he was waving a heavy walking stick and shouting ‘tally-ho, you chaps’ as he jumped into the trench. The stick was bloodstained when I saw him later in the morning. I have been forced to put his name forward for a decoration! I have also no choice other than to make him lieutenant – Brigade has confirmed him in the rank this day.’

He blamed the failure of the battle on the lack of artillery support, due to the shortage of shells. He knew that Primrose’s father, Lord Elkthorn, had some minor role in the Ministry and would make his words heard in government.

General French was less subtle. He informed his pet newspaper correspondents of his complaints, let them publish that all was not entirely well with the artillery while informing their editors and owners of the reality of a massive shortage of ammunition of all calibres. His words were quoted in Parliament, embarrassing Mr Asquith, the Prime Minister, who did not like to be offered blame, much preferring a quieter, gentlemanly existence. He was heard to complain that the damned people seemed to expect him to be responsible for the war.

Lloyd George, Minister of Munitions for some six months, was outraged. He had done much to increase the output of explosives in Britain and had been responsible for buying in massive quantities from America and other neutrals. He had said, repeatedly, that by the spring of ’16, there would be a sufficiency to hand but that no major battles should be launched before then – stocks would not be high enough. French had indulged in the offensive at Loos against Lloyd George’s wishes; now he was blaming the Welsh Wizard for his failure.

French’s fate was sealed. No man stabbed Lloyd George in the back twice. Only the bravest or most unaware attempted it once.

That having been decided, the problem was to find a general who was any better. The press demanded Haig, courtesy primarily of the amount of money his plutocratic family pushed in their direction. The House of Commons strongly supported Haig, for much the same reason. A few voices pointed out that he was no more competent than French and had shown the least little bit shy at Le Cateau; they were ignored. Asquith did not like Haig, primarily because Haig ignored him; he was too weak to form a coalition against Haig and in any case knew of no better alternative.

The names of a few other generals who had shown competent were brought forward, publicly mentioned as better than Haig; they became marked men.

Allenby especially was offered as an intelligent, able, go-ahead younger man; he was posted immediately to the Middle East, the War Office preferring a nonentity in France. The War Office as well had discovered that Haig had any number of friends who, between them, knew where every body had been buried and were happily prepared to raise old scandals in pursuit of their aim of advancing their man.

Primrose wrote scathingly, increasingly contemptuous of the leadership of the country who were jeopardising the war and, far more importantly, placing her fiancé’s life in additional danger.

‘The Press is distinguished solely by its dishonesty now. Previously it might have been said that they buried some of the truth in the national interest. Now they publish outright lies in pursuit of their own political aims. It was used to be the case that the Arts provided a haven for those opposed to the national consensus – one could look to the playwrights and authors to offer the cool, clear voice of sanity and dissent. Now, the musicals, the plays, the revues, all present nothing other than the crudest, most simplistic jingoistic form of government propaganda. No book can be published that is critical of the official view, with the exception of some poetry – there are a very few poets who have more to offer than Rupert Brooke’s sickeningly sycophantic doggerel.’

Richard was impressed by her words. He had never read a line of poetry in his life and had only vaguely heard of Rupert Brooke, remembering a brief comment from Brigadier Braithwaite about him as ‘an Oxford poofter who had died without ever seeing action’.

He did not think that he should pass Braithwaite’s opinion on to Primrose – she might well quote it in company.

Letters Home were subject to censorship at battalion level and, in theory, Richard was obliged to offer his mail to the Adjutant to be read and edited as appropriate. In practise, he put his letters into the postbag with a quick scribble of ‘passed’ on the envelope. He took some pains not to mention names or places, showing willing in case a German spy should somehow read his offerings. The reality was that the High Command preferred that the people in England should not be told of the bad food and poor conditions the soldiers endured; it was easier to censor than to make the effort to improve things.

‘Jam, Primrose! Ordinary enough stuff, one might say, and we are now getting supplies through. Tasteless, too sweet and full of hard lumps! The men say the raspberry jam is swede boiled up with sugar and with red colouring and sawdust added to counterfeit the pips. I am inclined to believe them, especially as one of the new replacements worked in a confectionery and jam factory until he was eighteen and old enough to join up. The stories he tells are horrifying! Do not, under any circumstances eat shop-bought ginger cake! The strong flavour makes it possible to disguise any number of sins! The bully beef is more gristle than meat, the cans often no more than half-full and consequently rotting because of the enclosure of air. There is a stew which comes in cans – it is full of soggy lumps of unnamed vegetable and unrecognisable meat, truly awful. The only things the men do like are the cans of herrings and mackerel in red sauce which we see once or twice a month. Personally, I find them vile!’

Richard reread his litany of complaint, debated whether he should send it, decided he must. From the sound of it, Primrose was in urgent need of honesty in her existence.

‘I much hope to have leave in the New Year. It is generally agreed that nothing will happen in Flanders prior to the New Army arriving, which is expected in May or June. We are to hold and make ready for the Big Push in July. It may be possible to arrange for three weeks in England when the battalion is out of the line on rest, which is hoped to become a regular rotation. I have spoken to the Brigadier and he is hopeful. I will be happy indeed when you become my wife, my love!’

It was not easy to write endearments – neither Navy nor Army had a place for ‘soppy sentimentality’ as he remembered an officer at Dartmouth describing romance in all of its forms. Officers should be in love with their service, taking a wife in their middle years so that the breed should continue – every officer should send one, at least, of sons to follow in his footsteps. There was no other way of maintaining the proper traditions, it seemed. The officer in question had seemed rather regretful that breeding was not possible without the involvement of women in the process. The Navy would be far better off without wives in the background, he had no doubt. He had given wise advice to the class – not to marry before attaining the rank of Commander, unless the bride had a substantial income to bring to the marital home, and to choose from a Naval family so that the girl had been brought up with an understanding of duty.

‘Finally, gentlemen, always remember – Duty First! There can be no choice between Home and the Navy – the Service always has priority.’

The words had been solemnly said, Richard recalled, the lieutenant commander in question, a forty years old bachelor, having no doubt of their wisdom.

He passed them on in his letter – Primrose needed a laugh.

The hour he set aside for himself each day had gone too quickly. He grabbed his tin hat and ducked out of his bunker.

“Paisley, I am going up to the first line for a quick look around.”

His batman appeared, Lee-Enfield slung, ready at his shoulder.

“Sidearm loaded, sir?”

The holster was empty, Richard having forgotten to take the pistol down from its hook on the wall.

“Bugger!”

He dived back inside, grabbed the revolver and flicked the cylinder out, checked it had five rounds, the chamber beneath the hammer empty.

“Thank you, Paisley.”

They set off the fifty yards along the second trench, turned into the communication trench leading the fifty yards to the front.

“Ought to be longer, Paisley. The Germans kept their lines too close together.”

“Makes it easier to support each other, sir. Can throw a bomb pretty near half way across from one to the other.”

They eased around the first dogleg, a favourite aiming point for snipers, present again now that the lines had stabilised.

“Got that sod yesterday, sir, what was sitting up over this one. Mr Michaels it was what spotted him. Up on top of one of them bunkers, he was, damned four hundred yards away. He called in the eighteen pounders to paste the bunker before he could get down and into cover.”

“Is that what the firing was about? Must have been twenty shells to kill one sniper.”

“Six of ours he got in the week, sir. All of them belly shot.”

A strong chance that all would die, slowly, taking up hospital beds and using up manpower to get them to treatment.

There was an argument for having many more snipers. The trouble was that few of the men would do the job. Sitting up in cover, waiting to fire aimed shots, deliberately killing selected targets, demanded a cold-bloodedness that most did not possess. The three snipers now in the battalion were respected, in a way, but had few close friends. Snipers were a unique breed, a bit doolally, in most soldiers’ opinion. Richard agreed with his men.

“Best thing then, to get him.”

He knew that Brigade would complain, would regard the expenditure of artillery rounds as unjustifiable to kill off one man. He was not inclined to care greatly what the men well distant from the firing line had to say, not any more.

“All well Captain Caton? I hear young Michaels showed well again yesterday.”

“Very much so, sir. That sniper was a damned nuisance. Any word on him?”

It was a month since Richard had recommended Michaels for an MC, very well earned, in his opinion.

“There is a backlog at HQ, it seems, Caton. They are too busy stabbing each other in the back to get on with running the Army.”

“What’s the word there, sir?”

“We can expect to hear that General Haig was taken over command of the BEF any day.”

“Another cavalry man!”

“So is Allenby, and he would do a far better job than either Haig or French. Even Smith-Dorrien would have been preferable. Neither is favoured in London, however.”

They said no more. Richard looked through the small viewing port that had been carved in the parapet, saw no change from the morning, when he had last looked.

“What’s that thing that submarines have, sir? For looking out when they are under the sea?”

“Periscope, Caton – lenses and mirrors in a tube… What a very good idea! I wonder how they are made. Do you know?”

Caton knew only that they existed.

Richard sat down in his bunker that evening and made a formal request to Brigade that the periscope should be investigated and, if practical, made on a small scale to be installed in the trenches. He sat down to another letter to Primrose, including a drawing of what he was thinking of.

‘Not much of an artist, my dear love. If I was, I would draw a picture of you to put up on my wall.’

He wondered if it was true that absence made the heart grow fonder, as they insisted. Certainly, he missed her. He suspected he was in love, which was rather strange and more than a little pleasing. He had long feared that he was a cold, heartless sort of person; it seemed that he was not.

“Paisley, could you get me a mug of tea, please.”

“Coming up, sir. Do you want a sandwich with it? I got hold of some Branston pickles and a can of the good ham this morning, sir. Bread is fresh today as well and I got some butter.”

“Well done, Paisley! If it cost anything, take the money from the drawer.”

Richard always kept a mixture of half sovereigns and francs to hand, never more than about ten pounds, topping it up when necessary. Paisley knew to use the cash if the opportunity arose for a little black-marketeering and could be trusted absolutely not to abuse the liberty – he would never do more than pick up the odd bottle of ‘vanrouge’ for himself, spending no more than sixpence once or at most twice a week.

“No need, sir. Came in as a favour, sir. The bloke what supplied the ‘Major with the blankets came across a case of each and sent them up to him gratis, being an old friend.”

Richard wondered what the quid pro quo had been. He also knew that it was none of his business. He would not ask, would not be told the truth if he did.

“What’s the buzz, Paisley?”

“General French to go next week, sir. Haig to take over. Bit of a shake up but none in our corps, sir. We go out of the line the week after, get Christmas in reserve, sir.”

The chances were that Paisley’s information was accurate.

“No leave this time round, sir. We gets a chance in February, one week for the men, two or three for the officers. Conscripts start coming in middle of March.”

“We need the men, Paisley.”

“They’ll be no problem, sir. They’ll knuckle under, see if they don’t!”

If that was the opinion of the senior men and the sergeants, it would do for Richard. They were the ones who would have the direct work of making the unwilling bodies fit in.

“Done it before, sir. Half the poor sods what came out to South Africa didn’t really want to but everybody else in the street was volunteering and they’d look yellow if they didn’t too. They fitted in, was just as brave as the rest.”

Richard was much of the opinion that bravery was no more than a matter of circumstance, more often than not. He was a hero, officially, and knew how it had come about.

“Good. That’s one less problem to worry about.”

That left him with the unending concern, the need to nurture an offensive spirit in the men. Standing in a trench, doing nothing other than wait, was destructive of morale. The old trench raids were no longer practical. He had to do something.

Two nights later, a bit before two in the morning, he led a party of a dozen through the wire in front of their line, using the switchback pathways left for their own use when they needed to mend or expand the apron. The gaps in the wire were wide enough for one man and meandered through a hundred yards right and left to cross the thirty yards in front of the trench. They could not be spotted and infiltrated at night other than by the luckiest of chances, offered no risk of letting the Germans through.

They walked silently in single file, brasses blackened and all personal equipment tied tight so that they would make no noise as they walked forward, carefully out of step.

Each man carried a bag of Mills Bombs over his shoulder.

Richard consulted his compass and directed the men out in twos to make a line outside the German wire at its narrowest points where soft ground or a watercourse or a group of shell craters forced it back towards their defences.

He went out last, Paisley at his shoulder, came to his own pre-selected spot, or so he hoped. He knelt, eyes fixed on the luminous dial of his watch, waiting on the slow second hand to reach the exact minute set. Observation suggested that the Germans changed sentries every two hours through the night, exactly on the even hour.

“Now!”

He spoke in a whisper – the men would react to the first explosion rather than to a shouted command.

Paisley pulled the pin on the grenade he was holding and lobbed it towards the trench, taking another out of the bag in front of him. The light of the first explosion showed him an over. He tossed the next and six more in succession, landing at least two directly in the trench. A machine gun began to fire on fixed lines, close to them. They had mapped all of the machine guns they could locate, knew where to throw the next bombs.

Richard took out his whistle, waited for the second minute of the action to come to an end, sounded the recall. He and Paisley dropped low, scurried back, bent over all the way, occasional bursts of fire passing just over their heads in the darkness.

They had marked the exit to the pathway with a scrap of white rag, tied at ground level. The pair knelt there, counting the men in. Four pairs and one single.

“Jones Two, sir, stood up to throw a bomb over where ‘e saw a bit of light. Machine gun got ‘im, sir. Dead, sir. Right through ‘is face and knocked the top of ‘is ‘ead off!”

“Thank you, Private Errigo.”

One of the sons of the many Italian immigrants to the boot and shoe factories around Bedford, Errigo was English in everything but name. He intended to become a policeman after the war, he had said. A new man in, he was already on the list for promotion, would get his first stripe in the morning. He was pleased to be recognised, to have his name remembered.

The eleven remaining of the party gathered outside Richard’s dugout, a tot of rum in hand.

“Well done all, a successful evening and only one man lost. Did any of you see anything of interest?”

Ten headshakes, one hand rising.

“Who is that, Bass, is it?”

“Yes, sir. I did see summat over by the machine gun nest what was on the side of us…” Bass looked down at his hands still not entirely certain of left and right. He wore a wedding ring on the left hand. “To the left, so it were, sir, mebbe ten yards from the old gun. Sort of upright, so it were, sir, a gun barrel, real thick it were, as big round as me, most like. One of they mortars, so I reckons, sir, and new put in place acos of there was men a-working round it.”

Bass was a Wiltshire man, had joined the battalion in Devizes after hearing of his younger brother’s death aboard Good Hope.

“Right, well seen, Bass. I will put that on my map.”

“It ain’t there no more, sir, for old Plowright and me throwin’ a couple of they bombs apiece at it. Old Plowright ‘ere, ‘e tossed one what landed right inside the barrel, sir.”

“Well done, both of you. Anything else?”

Nothing was offered.

“Right! Drink up and get some sleep in. I’ll do the same, after writing up the report.”

Richard ducked into his own space, made a show of sitting to his desk.

“Was it worth it, Paisley? Lost one man, threw a hundred bombs, thereabouts. Damaged or destroyed a big minenwerfer and two or three machine guns. Killed a few men. Pretty much pointless, when you look at it.”

“All the officers and most of the blokes will be wanting to go out on the next one, sir. Bit of a laugh, ain’t it, waking the Huns up with Mills Bombs about their earholes! They ain’t going to sleep easy these next few nights, that’s for sure.”

Brigadier Braithwaite agreed. He was much in favour of demonstrating the offensive spirit, said so at some length over the telephone.

“Thing is though, Baker, it’s not the sort of thing for you to be doing, not in person. I know there’s nothing you like better than getting into the Hun, but you are not to be risking your neck in these little affairs. Leave them to your subalterns – give them a chance to get some blood on their hands! I shall send the report up the line, give Division something to tell Corps to prove they are busy. Let Haig know that we are fighting this war. He comes in on the 15th, by the way. Day after tomorrow. Your boy Michaels has his MC at last. Took them long enough!”

“Well deserved, sir. I have made him up, acting, as lieutenant.”

“I’ll send through his permanence, Baker. He needs to be looked after – got the right sort of stuff in him. Getting back to you, an order, Baker! You are not to go out on any more of these bombing raids. You have done one, to see if it was possible. You have found that it works, now don’t do it again! You are far too valuable to be killed in a minor sort of bickering. I shall need you next year when we have made the breakthrough with the New Army.”

“Right, sir. I shall be good. It does get tedious, sir, sat here a quarter of a mile from the Hun and unable to get my hands round their necks!”

Braithwaite responded appropriately, telling him to calm his fire eating instincts. A few months and he would get all of the blood he wanted.

“For the while, behave yourself, and remember that pretty little girl who is waiting at home for you. She will not want to put on black for you, Baker!”

“I hope to marry next leave, sir. Provided one comes through that is long enough.”

“In the New Year if our plans work out. We shall see, Baker.”

Braithwaite managed to sound mysterious, no doubt intentionally.

As Paisley had predicted, Haig took over command of the BEF on December 15th and the battalion went into reserve that afternoon. Their attitude made it clear which was the more important.

Richard stood at Hawkeswill’s side and listened to the queue of men at the delousing station, moaning as they stripped and threw their uniforms to the last stitch onto a heap outside the doors. They had been forewarned, had put all personal possessions and their all-important paybooks into the safekeeping provided and guarded by a pair of Provosts.

“First time I heard of they bastards doing something useful.”

He heard the same words a dozen times over as the men complained about standing out in the cold.

“Bloody well ‘urry up! Freezing me knackers off out ‘ere!”

The system was surprisingly efficient in fact, the men waiting a very short time before entering hot showers, water under pressure beating down on them as they lathered up the ‘medicated’ soap and shampoo, both reeking of carbolic, and scrubbed themselves clean. Most took advantage of the razors provided and shaved their heads to the barest stubble, clearing out the lice the easy way. A few of the vain persevered with nit combs, scraping the eggs out of their hair.

Out of the showers, they towelled themselves dry and walked through a stores shed, collecting new uniforms, all of it roughly sized and their responsibility to sew up to fit, but new and clean. There were boots as well, needing to be worked up but clean and solid.

They completed the circle, picking up their personal possessions under the eye of the Sergeant Major and collecting their rifles before forming up into companies and marching to their tents. A group of defaulters from another battalion was piling up their uniforms, pitchforking them into a cart and taking them off to firepits, to be soaked in petrol and burned.

There were medical orderlies observing as they dressed, running their eyes over the men for boils and rashes and festering cuts and scratches, unnoticed at the front by the men themselves.

“Healthier than permitting them to be louse-ridden, sir. Waste of uniforms, maybe, but the only way of keeping the men clean. Can never get all of the lice out, no matter how much you try.”

Richard had seen the men sat in their dugouts, ‘chatting’ – running a candle flame along the seams of their trousers and tunics, listening to the lice pop and knowing that a few would survive and breed into hundreds within days. They did their best, could never succeed. It was said that some forms of typhus were spread by lice or other bugs. They had to try to keep them down.

“What’s the word on work parties, Hawkeswill?”

“One week on, two off, sir. Not so much coming up at the moment and a labour battalion to hand as well. We should have Christmas week completely free, sir, which is lucky. Poor sods up in the lines won’t be so pleased.”

“Neither they will. It won’t kill them.”

“No, sir. The Hun will do that!”

Richard did wish that Hawkeswill would not try so hard to be funny.

“One thing, sir. We have got a Mess to use this leave. Brigade has taken over a pair of barns and converted them for the officers’ use. Not entirely luxurious, shall we say. A lot better than tents.”

They retired to the building as snow began to fall, found a large room with a fire in the middle and chairs and tables set out. A row of cabins had been built down the far wall, graduating in size from colonel’s office and bedroom to second lieutenant’s hutches.

“Paraffin stoves as well, sir, keeping them warm, if a bit smelly.”

There was a substantial bar, thinly laden with bottles, and a door through to kitchens behind it.

“Up to us to buy in anything we want to drink, sir.”

“Step into my room a moment, Hawkeswill.”

Paisley was there, had his personal belongings arranged already. Richard picked up the small and heavy attaché case, dug out a large drawstring bag, tipped it out on the desk on the side of the room that was his office.

“Let me see… Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty.” He set out five piles of shiny sovereigns. “Should be sufficient to keep us going for a week, do you think? Arrange a whip round if we need any more. Don’t make any fuss about where this money has come from.”

Hawkeswill glanced at his watch and grabbed the coins and ran.

“Time enough to get to town and back, sir, before dinner, if I can grab transport.”

Richard was disturbed as he changed for dinner, hearing yells of approval from the big room.

“Sounds as if the Adjutant’s back, sir.”

“So it does, Paisley. Let’s see what he’s got.”

Even at wartime prices, fifty gold sovereigns went a long way, the French shopkeepers being willing to give a hefty discount for gold rather than paper.

Hawkeswill was more than pleased with himself.

“Good brandy and bad, sir – most of this lot won’t be able to tell the difference. White wine and red, some of it good, all of it palatable with dinner. Belgian beer, being as a refugee has established a brewery. Not comparable with an English pint, to my mind. Drinkable, though. Sufficient of everything to keep us going up to and over Christmas. If we start to run out, there’s more where this lot came from, provided there’s cash to buy it!”

Some of the officers had private incomes, none had been able to spend their pay in many months. A mess fund was organised on the spot and Hawkeswill promised to show them the way round in the morning.

Major Vokes gave his measured approval.

“Get them all pulling together, sir. What a Mess is all about!”

Vokes had his suspicions about the source of the first funds, said nothing. It was in no way out of tradition for a wealthy colonel to subsidise his Mess, though less common in recent years. The young men would enjoy themselves far more with a glass to hand and he would ensure that they did not go too far, drink too heavily for their own good.

“Have to say that I am pleased to be back in a Mess again, sir, even if only for a few weeks. Feels more like the proper Army. Haven’t enjoyed pigging it in a trench. Mind you, it’s not too much unlike conditions in the Peninsula on occasion, from what I have read in the Regimental History. Not what an officer wants for years on end, however!”

Richard agreed. It was not what he wanted at all… It was doing him a deal of good, he had to admit. His life had been turned upside down by this war. He had been made prosperous and must expect to continue to flourish when peace eventually came. If he remained as a soldier, he had a certain career ahead of him; should he choose to leave the Army, he could almost make his pick of occupations, walking into virtually any boardroom that he chose. Add to that, he would have a wife – not the least of his rewards, by a long way. It was a lousy war, literally so, yet he was profiting from it.

He sat with a glass to hand after dinner, removed a little from the mass of his officers, as was correct, quietly thinking, musing over his immediate past and looking to the future.

Provided Haig did not manage to kill him – and French had not achieved that and Haig was probably brighter than him – then he was a made man.

Ridiculous, was it not?

He smiled a welcome to Vokes and Caton as they came across, thinking that the colonel should not be left without company, that it was only courtesy to sit with him.

“The boys are letting off a bit of steam tonight.”

There was a lot of noise coming from the end where the youngsters had congregated, distant from their superiors.

“They are alive, Vokes. Just coming to appreciate the fact and aware that six of their number are not. Eighteen and nineteen years old, most of them – too young to be made aware of mortality and needing a drink or two to dull the edges of that realisation.”

“Very philosophical, Colonel?”

“Sat back like this, one can think of those who have not made it, Vokes. I left a good few of the Third Beds behind and have seen too many of these youngsters go down. I can afford an hour of memories. Not two, however!”

They agreed – there had never such a sustained level of losses in the history of the Army. The junior officers especially had been killed off wholesale.

“Too many youngsters who volunteered in August are not here now, Colonel. A lot of families have lost all of their sons, have been effectively wiped out. Letters from Home tell me of estates coming on the market every week, their men all gone.”

All three had heard of military families – father a major or colonel, sons gone as subalterns – who had been lost, all of them falling to the machine guns. It seemed likely that every family of the aristocracy had lost at least one young man.

“Not quite,” Richard corrected them. “I have memories of being told that the passenger lists on the Cunard and Union Castle and White Star and P and O liners were absolutely full in the months before the war broke out. When it became obvious that there would be a war, a good few chose to take a holiday in South Africa or Australia or to visit relatives in the United States.”

“Not the sort we need out here, Colonel. We can do without them.”

“We wouldn’t see them in any event, Caton. If they finally deign to don khaki it will be with staff officers’ tabs. None of that particular sort will be spotted at our sides!”

They agreed, signalling to a mess waiter for refills.

“You hear the songs the men sing in the dugouts, Colonel, off duty, in privacy, more or less. Some of them are the old ones from the Boer War and before. The newer sort are a damned sight less polite and some are very pointed.”

“I don’t hear them, in the nature of things, Caton. I appear in the trench and the whisper goes ahead of me.”

They laughed, knowing that to be true. The first sight of the Colonel led to the word being passed so that the Crown and Anchor boards could be hidden and the pontoon schools could tuck their stakes away, gambling being unlawful. The men were sure that Richard would turn the blind eye, thought it only polite to save him the bother.

“Do the men sing much, Caton?”

“A few have good voices, were always used to sing in the church halls or down at the Sally Ann or in the local pubs.”

“Sally Ann?”

“Salvation Army – very popular for teaching reading and writing and a bit more, getting the boys who want to learn ready to go to evening classes. Surprising just how many wanted to better themselves and had few places to go for help. Add to that, always a cup of tea at the Citadel and a few pretty girls to talk to. If you were musical, they would teach an instrument or put you in their choir, no great worry about what you did on Sunday either.”

Richard added that to his store of knowledge. His experience of the Salvation Army had been to see their brass band at a distance and avoid it.

“Those who have a voice are forever singing – the men like it, most of them. Passes an evening, listening to the old songs. Funny thing is, the old sweats all of them want the Boer War songs – I am sure I hear ‘Sarie Marais’ at least once a week.”

That was new to Richard.

Vokes agreed it was popular, one of the better songs even if it was Dutchy.

“It’s the new songs I don’t like so much, Colonel. ‘They were only playing Leapfrog’ you hear every night and that is definitely crude!”

“Heard it at a distance, not to pick up all of the words.”

Vokes obliged, croaking in a broken baritone.

‘They were only playing leapfrog,

They were only playing leapfrog,

They were only playing leapfrog,

When one staff-officer jumped right over another staff-officer’s back!’

“Oh! Not especially subtle, is it?”

“Anything but, Colonel!”

“Can’t forbid it – any attempt to ban it would make it far more popular and would make an unnecessary act of defiance out of it. Just hope it dies away. You don’t hear ‘Von Kluck’ now. Perhaps all these things get old hat after a while.”

Major Vokes had never heard ‘Von Kluck’. Caton had and enlightened him.

“Oh, I say! Not what we want to hear shouted out. Not at all!”

Wincanton had drifted within hearing range, offered a little valuable information.

“Still the catchword in the 3rd Battalion, Major. If a man drops something they still say ‘Von Kluck it’. Apparently one of their officers said it in August ’14. You were there, Colonel. Do you know how it started?”

Richard was sure the question was innocent, that Wincanton was not prodding him.

“Yes, Wincanton. Started when my company was first put into the line in Belgium, the 3rd trying to hold against six battalions with field artillery. There was a lot of swearing that morning.”

They said no more, simply adding another story to his name.

Chapter Eleven

“Torpedoes, forty degrees on the starboard bow!”

“Coxswain!”

Simon jumped across to the cord that activated the steam siren, three double tugs, the emergency signal to the half-flotilla to follow his lead to comb the tracks of torpedoes, to turn bows on so as to lessen the target. He stumbled as Lancelot rolled deep under full rudder, grabbing at a handrail as McCracken bellowed down the voicepipe to the engineroom.

“Emergency speed!”

He stared ahead as the ship came back to level keel, picked out four torpedo tracks parallel to each other, the nearest a good ten yards abeam. If the three ships behind were alert and followed him precisely, as he expected them to, they would all miss.

Four torpedoes – that said a destroyer not a submarine, off their bows and waiting, already in the sights and them closing to point blank range with only the bow guns bearing.

“Hard aport! Engage destroyers starboard beam.”

He whooped the siren again, three single blasts, code for surface ship action.

Guns flared off the starboard bow and five inch shells landed alongside, five ships in line abreast and closing fast. Without the last-second turn, those shells would have all been hits. The three four inchers and the thirty-seven mil were firing fast over open sights, should be landing some shells home, further reducing the German accuracy. They had a chance of surviving now.

A five inch exploded in the forecastle, penetrating the deck and blowing in the men’s messes, empty at action stations. A fire started – there were wooden tables and benches there as well as the contents of the men’s lockers. The First Lieutenant ran to take charge of the damage control party.

Simon heard the cough of compressed air amidships, knew that Rees had seen a target for his torpedoes, had fired on his own initiative, as were the instructions for action.

There was a loud explosion astern, on one of the three behind him, taking the bulk of the shellfire as they passed the German destroyers on opposite course.

“Lightning, sir. Hit amidships. On fire. Ready use blowing.”

Strachan came running back to the bridge.

“Fire extinguished, sir. Lost the crew to the forward four inch. Splinters. Gun is u/s, sir.”

“Bring her round to starboard, Coxswain, across the sterns of the Hun.”

The German destroyers were three to five knots faster than Lancelot, depending on their class. There was no point to attempting to chase, them, particularly with no forward gun. The shapes were disappearing already, guns falling silent for lack of targets.

An explosion out in the dark, a torpedo warhead blowing.

“Bring us onto the torpedoed ship, Coxswain.”

Two minutes and they smelt fuel oil, slowed to look for survivors, found a knot of a dozen clustered around a pair of life rafts.

“Get them aboard!”

Survivors must be picked up, irrespective of nationality. The Germans did the same.

Almost all were wounded as well as part drowned. At a guess, they were sailors who had been on deck, manning guns or tubes or on the bridge. Those belowdecks did not normally survive a torpedo strike on a small ship.

“What’s the word from Lightning?”

“Gone, sir. Lynx reports taking the most of her men aboard, sir. She was able to get alongside.”

That was well done, must be highlighted in his report of the action. Bringing one’s own ship so close that men could jump from the burning deck to safety was out of the ordinary run. Williams must be recommended for a gong for that.

“Anything from Lucifer?”

“Taken casualties, sir. Five inch hit amidships. Jettisoned torpedoes.”

“Well done her Gunner! What’s the time, Number One?”

“Forty minutes till first light, sir.”

“Signal ‘Search for survivors till dawn.’”

An hour later, the three ships remaining formed a line and made course for Harwich.

“Going home with our tails between our legs, sir.”

“Defeated, Strachan. Not a pleasant feeling. At least we sank one of them in exchange. What has Lucifer reported?”

“Twelve dead and eighteen wounded, sir. No officers whole, sir. Midshipman has the bridge, Commissioned Gunner in charge of damage control. Pumping but able to hold the inflow of water, sir. Engineroom taken damage and casualties, able to make twelve knots.”

“Eleven hours to Harwich. Message Commodore. ‘Position such and such. ETA Harwich, 1700 hours. Severely wounded in urgent need of medical attention. Figures for half-flotilla forty dead, sixty wounded. Prisoners number thirteen, all in need of medical assistance.’”

Strachan ran below with the message, adding the precise position.

A first message with the bald facts of the action had been sent almost as soon as the guns fell silent.

Twenty minutes and there was a reply.

“Medical aid despatched. ETA 1300.”

“That should be one of the light cruisers, sir. They can make the better part of thirty knots and carry a doctor.”

“Inform Lynx and Lucifer.”

Eight of the wounded had succumbed before Arethusa appeared at full steam, lowering her boats as she reached the three ships.

“Looks like a doctor in each going to Lynx and Lucifer, sir. Must have put extra bodies aboard at Harwich. Sick berth orderlies coming to us. Engineer in the boat for Lucifer as well, sir.”

An hour and Lucifer reported that repairs had been impossible, she would continue at twelve knots on one shaft.

“Orderly from Arethusa requesting to speak to you, sir.”

Simon went belowdecks, found the orderly and his party of three packing their bags.

“Patched up the prisoners, sir. All should make it to shore hospital, though one at least has swallowed fuel oil. Done his guts no favours at all! Might I request a boat, sir, to one of the other ships?”

“Certainly. Thank you for your help. Lucifer was worst hit, I will send you there.”

The orderlies were often Quakers or others who would not shed blood but wished to serve, refusing the commissions their education and class would normally have expected. They were commonly to be found where the need was greatest.

They reached the yard at Harwich, tied up at spaces hastily cleared for them. There were ambulances waiting and photographers from the Press, accompanied by a Lieutenant.

“Orders from the Admiralty, sir. Pictures of survivors from the ship you sank, rescued at great risk. Lightning’s loss will be announced tomorrow.”

It seemed more than ordinarily dishonest. Lieutenant commanders did not argue with the Admiralty.

“Mr Strachan, prisoners to the brow, please. Hand them over to the Military Police who are waiting for them.”

The Germans left the ship in silence, apart from the calls of the photographers as they posed them for the best drama, British hands carrying the single stretcher.

“Bastards!”

“Admiralty, Military Police, Press or Germans, Number One? Might be a difficult choice.”

Strachan chose not to reply.

“Commodore’s staff lieutenant coming aboard, sir.”

Simon was invited to the offices, not to speak to the newspapers until he had briefed his master.

“Coming up to Christmas and the Admiralty does not want bad news, Sturton. Lightning’s loss will be slipped out in the evening papers tomorrow. As it stands, there will be photographs of your damaged gun and mention of a few brave tars who lost their lives and over all will be the German prisoners, ‘plucked from the night seas’, no doubt. Such honourable fellows we are!”

“They get more dishonest every month, sir.”

“I think you are right, Sturton. Don’t matter, do it? We have no choice other than to fight on. Back to the yard at Chatham for your ships, it would seem, Sturton, possibly for a long time. Might well end up simply transferring the bulk of your crews into different boats. I shall wait for orders from on high for that. What happened?”

“Five German destroyers, waiting for us. They spotted us first, how I do not know. They opened the party with just four torpedoes, fortunately. Had they each fired four, crossing, we would have been hit for sure.”

Tyrwhitt nodded.

“Confirms a bit of intelligence we have received. Shortage of munitions. They are permitted to use only one torpedo on a small ship such as a destroyer. They fired one for each of you, in a single salvo to increase their chance of hitting any. Bending the rules, you might say.”

“They might have done better to wait another minute or two and then use gunfire only, sir. As it was, we were able to commence evasive action. The question arises, how did they see us first?”

“They knew where you were, within a mile. A submarine spotted you and sent a wireless message when it surfaced after dark. Then it followed you at two or three miles distant, continuing to send messages. Not worth using their few torpedoes on small, fast ships. So they called for help. Our people picked up the transmissions, did not decode them in time. You were patrolling at low speed. I think in future we must set a minimum of fifteen knots on night patrol. No sub will match that.”

“At least it was not a question of efficiency, of their lookouts being better than ours.”

“No. An effective ambush. We have a new light cruiser on station, sister to Arethusa. Naiad. She is yours, Sturton, with seven destroyers, all L Class. Take command tomorrow with your fellow Strachan as your Number One. I don’t think he is ready for command yet, do you agree?”

“Three more months, sir. He is learning fast. My thanks for the command, sir. Anything particular you must tell me of her, sir?”

“Not really, Sturton. You will discover why captain and first are replaced – it should not affect the efficiency of the ship and is best kept quiet. If I say nothing in this office, nothing can be overheard. Oh, you know one of the lieutenants, thought he should join up with you again.”

Tyrwhitt was trying to suppress his grin. Simon felt a sick certainty.

“Can I refuse the command, sir?”

“No! You’ve got it. And him. As you have guessed, Mr Higgins is coming back to you, Sturton. You have made him all he is, my dear fellow, and he is all yours!”

“I cannot express my thanks too profusely, sir!”

Tyrwhitt, collapsed over his desk, roaring with laughter.

“The Coastal Motor Boats are not ready for action yet. Some sort of problem with the motors, it seems, needing a rebuild. He is at a loose end, as a result.”

“Describes the boy only too well, sir!”

“You are acting commander with immediate effect, Sturton. Well done, sir! Are there any of your people who should be mentioned?”

“Williams, sir, of Lynx. Brought his ship alongside and held her long enough for Lightning’s crew to step across. Very deserving, sir. I have a list of casualties who will need replacing in their ships, sir. Lucifer is down to her midshipman, her officers all dead or severely wounded. Campbell-Barnes survived. I do not know his condition. The mid did well to bring her back – I offered one of my people to relieve him, he replied he had his certificate and could hold the bridge until he had brought her in. A Mention at the least, sir?”

“DSC for that, I think, Sturton. Impressive behaviour. I do not doubt the Admiralty will accept my recommendation for him and for Williams. What of this destroyer you sank? Whose was it?”

“Lancelot’s, sir. My Mr Rees saw the opportunity and fired his torpedoes. My orders for night action give him the scope to select targets and fire torpedoes or guns at his discretion. He tells me that the Hotchkiss was very effective, by the way. Far more so than the Maxim would have been. I would recommend their use on all destroyers, sir.”

“Noted. Whether Their Lordships will want a French gun on an English ship is another matter, of course. They are capable of being very petty on occasion. I was surprised they permitted the experiment of placing one aboard Lancelot.”

Tyrwhitt was sufficiently senior to criticise the Admiralty. Simon was not.

“The promotion, sir, makes it sensible for me to bring my marriage forward. May I have your permission to wed, sir?”

“Granted, Sturton. My best wishes. Who is the young lady?”

“Miss Alice Parrett, sir. Sister to Polly.”

“Ah! All is clear! Congratulations – a good family, the Parretts, and naval as well now. I cannot give you leave for a few months, Sturton. Won’t fit in with our plans for the winter, I am afraid. As you know, we are short of boats at the moment and have to keep you all out on patrol. Should be better by May – we are getting things called patrol boats as well as more destroyers. The Coastal Motor Boats should be in commission as well. All of them capable of chasing a submarine. Assume that the month of May will be yours. Your Naiad will probably be in need of dockyard time by then; all of the problems of new ships should have surfaced after five months of seatime. While I think of it, is your boy Waller capable of taking over as First of Lancelot?”

Simon shook his head.

“Too soon, sir. He is an able lad, no question of that, but he hasn’t got the seatime in. Six months at least. McCracken could step up – and is senior besides.”

“The youngster with the harsh Ulster accent? Never liked that sound, you know, Sturton! If he is capable, then the good of the service demands he must rise. Tell him, if you please.”

It seemed strange to Simon that an accent might be a reason to hold a man down. He made no comment.

Returning to Lancelot he found he was ahead of the news, he was in front of the lower deck grapevine. Packer had not started to pack his cabin.

“We are for Naiad, Packer. Put up my third ring. Acting, not permanent yet.”

Simon ran up to the bridge, found Strachan acting as officer of the day.

“Naiad for you, Mr Strachan, as my Number One. Flotilla leader. Command for you within six months, if all goes as it should. McCracken will be taking over from you. I don’t know who the new captain will be. The ship won’t be sailing for a week or two in any case.”

McCracken was in his bunk, getting an hour or two of sleep in. He staggered out drowsily, woke up fast as he heard of his promotion and that he had two hours to speak to Strachan before he left.

“It’s no worry, sir. Mr Strachan has been showing me the way about against need. I can do the job.”

“I know that, Mr McCracken. I would not otherwise have recommended you. I expect to see you as a captain before the end of the coming year!”

A few farewells, taking pains to speak to Malcolm in his engineroom, and he left an empty cabin, Packer and three hands having packed at the run and gone ahead of him to Naiad, giving warning to them that the new man was coming. Simon was aware that he had missed his dinner, thought it better to board his new command at the earliest. Tyrwhitt had said nothing; he should have explained why the captaincy was vacant; it was out of the ordinary.

Captains were normally appointed to new ships before they were launched, acting as overseers of the construction process and particularly of fitting out. Naiad’s previous owner should have been six months aboard and would presumably have brought her down from the yard, likely to have been on the northeast coast, Newcastle way. Now, the cabin was empty.

It was unlikely that the captain would have been promoted out from a new ship, leaving much to be done to create an efficient crew.

That left room for conjecture.

Naiad was tied up, almost opposite the Commodore’s offices, an easy walk across from the yard. It had the advantage that he was visible in the evening light at a good two hundred yards. Strachan, who had gone ahead of him, knowing the ship to be absent its senior lieutenant, had spotted him and had the side party waiting, all as it should be. Being late in the day, he had chosen not to muster the crew in divisions to greet the new captain. That could better be done in the morning, would cause far less disruption to routine.

Simon stopped for a few seconds to view the ship, far larger than a destroyer.

Two six-inch guns in single turrets on the centre line forward, one stepped above the other. Six four inch aft of the bridge, single turrets on either beam. All quick firing. A single high angle gun immediately abaft the bridge, he could not see exactly what it was – small, a three pounder, perhaps. Machine guns to the bridge wings; bigger than Lewises, so most likely to be Vickers Guns, requiring two men apiece, a permanent crew rather than being available to any spare hand. There were lumps at the stern which he thought might be depth bombs. Four torpedo tubes set between the forward four inch and the high angle gun.

The deck was cluttered, he thought, additional gun and depth bombs simply squeezed in, not allowed for in the original design.

Good lines otherwise, a fast twenty-eight knot ship, possibly pushing a little more if the Engineer was good.

He stepped out again, reached the brow and a sentry dockside, presenting arms smartly. Unusual for a seaman, that. Most hands knew how to load and fire a rifle but were strangers to drill. Not impossible that the man had a record as a defaulter. If he had been sent off for thirty days in the naval prison he might have spent many hours on the parade ground, at the double with a rifle and pack, the drill shouted into him from dawn till dusk. Men sentenced to thirty days – the least they could be sent off to serve in the glasshouse – were treated especially harshly in the hope that they would not wish to come back again. It worked, sometimes.

“Thank you!”

The seaman blinked at the courtesy, almost smiled in return.

‘Not a bad man, whatever his record may be.’

He trotted up, pipes sounding as soon as his hat became visible above the deck. He still thrilled to that sharp squawk, the spine-tingling salute to the captain boarding his ship.

Strachan was stood at the salute, a line of officers at his side. Far more than on a destroyer.

Complement with wartime additions and additional signalmen as a destroyer leader must be around the three hundred mark, he suspected.

What had he got?

Strachan was at a disadvantage, unable to introduce the officers by name, knowing none of them yet.

Eight seamen lieutenants, salt horse, all of them, no specialisation. A Paymaster lieutenant stood next, his main function to assist in the administration of a large flotilla, something Simon had little knowledge of. A Navigator, which was always handy. Gunnery Officer, useful, demanded by the heavier guns; a junior Guns as well, no doubt to take the torpedo tubes and depth bombs. A Doctor, distinguished by his tabs, and valuable to the whole flotilla. Three engineers, one a lieutenant commander, the others lieutenants. Two sublieutenants towards the end of the line, a pair of midshipmen making up the complement.

Higgins was towards the end of the line of lieutenants, smiling broadly. The DSC on his chest marked him out, none of the others visibly decorated. Simon nodded to him, to his pleasure, the grin widening even further.

“Thank you, gentlemen. I am sorry to disturb you at this time of the day. I thought it better to come aboard as soon as possible. We may expect to be busy in the early future. I will speak to you individually tomorrow. Mr Strachan, with me please.”

Strachan led him aft to his cabin. He was amazed at the luxury available, compared to Lancelot or Sheldrake. There was a separate sleeping cabin and a shower room and toilet facility that was big enough to turn around in. His working and dining cabin was a good twelve feet on a side, space for desk and several chairs. It had a pair of bookshelves.

“How big is the wardroom, Strachan?”

“Seventeen of us can fit in, sir, with space to sit down. Small cabins but adequate. The subs and mids share a gunroom, proper navy fashion, sir. Big enough for the four, possibly giving them a bit more space than the officers have. The hands are jam-packed in together, sir. Wartime additions to the complement together with the extra bodies needed for signals have pushed her up to three hundred and twelve. Peacetime would have been about two-eighty. The Doctor wants at least one more orderly, sir, and Guns wants a chief petty officer.”

“Tight. Have you spoken to the Coxswain yet?”

“Young for the job, sir. I doubt he is much more than thirty. If he joined as a seaman boy, that could still give him more than fifteen years at sea after his training. He looks right, sir.”

Strachan had a sufficiency of experience to be able to weigh men up.

“Good enough. I do not know how long we have, Number One. Assume that we may be at sea within two days. Try to have us ready in that time, anyway. Have you heard why the ship is missing both captain and premier?”

“Nothing yet, sir. Have you eaten yet today, sir?”

As Strachan knew, he had not, far too busy on the slow run back to Harwich and bustling since making harbour. It was one of the First’s duties to keep an eye on his captain’s well-being.

“Not since dinner last night, in fact. Now you mention it, I’m bloody starving!”

Packer’s voice came from the sleeping cabin where he was busy.

“Beg pardon, sir. In hand, sir. Spoke to the Cook PO when I got aboard, sir. He’s putting something together now.”

“Thank you, Packer! You do me well!”

Strachan nodded; he would ensure that the blind eye applied to Packer, knowing that he would bend regulations on occasion in service to his captain. Having accompanied him through two ships, he was now a servant for life, would be discharged to a pension and cottage on the Perceval estate if he became old before Simon retired, would leave the service with his master otherwise. As such, he remained a seaman but was to be treated as more of a civilian, a naval compromise that none aboard could see as odd.

“What’s your feeling of the ship, Mr Strachan?”

A formally expressed question, requiring a careful answer.

“In no way out of the ordinary, sir. Harbour routine, obviously, with the bulk of the hands off-duty and one watch ashore on liberty from mid-afternoon to twenty-three hundred hours. Those aboard are almost all in the messdecks, within reason quiet, a little of singing and whistling, many I saw with a mug of tea, which means boiling water to hand in the galley, everything as normal. I don’t know what happened, sir, but it was all kept shtum.”

“Strange. Not to worry. It will all come out sooner or later.”

Strachan shrugged – it might be that they would never know exactly what had occurred. They might well have to rely on the grapevine which often overstated when it did not actually invent.

“What is the plan for the morning, sir?”

“Lieutenants in order of seniority to the cabin, you to announce each – gives you a chance to put name to face. Call the Paymaster to me now, please.”

Lieutenant Biggleswade appeared, in his best reporting uniform, having expected to be called to the Lord and Master before any of the other officers. He was in charge of ship and flotilla administration, knew where to find every piece of paper and what to do in any eventuality involving stores or men. Despite his title, he did a lot more than simply see to the men’s pay. Simon had been told that the Paymaster was a direct descendant of the Nelsonic purser, the function brought into the uniformed Navy rather than left as an anomalous cross of service and civilian role. Like most in his branch, he had been shifted across for being unable to meet the demands of a deck officer – some had weak chests, a large number were colour blind or needed spectacles.

“Welcome aboard, sir.”

“Thank you, Biggleswade. Officers’ personal reports, are they all up to date? Any out of the ordinary?”

The paymasters knew everything about their fellow-officers. They normally kept their mouths firmly closed, except in confidence to their captains.

“Nothing untoward, sir. Most were posted here, to a new ship, as a reward for showing more efficient than most. The sole anomaly, as one might say, is a young gentleman by the name of…”

“Let me guess,” Simon interrupted. “Higgins?”

“You have been forewarned, sir?”

“He came to me as a midshipman on Sheldrake, followed me to Lancelot as a sub and I thought I had finally got rid of him after he was decorated and promoted for an act of pure, unadulterated idiocy. Brave, mind you, but remarkably stupid. We came upon a cluster of new small craft not so far from Zeebrugge, were able to shoot them up and one almost collided with us. Higgins, will you believe, jumped aboard her and squashed two of her crew underfoot and shot most of the rest – no more than half a dozen all told.”

“Remarkable stuff, sir!”

“Unthinking! He has remarkable little to think with! Anyway, he is mine and we are lumbered with him.”

“He seems a pleasant young man, sir.”

“Well bred – very good manners. It may be his breeding that is the problem, the reason why he has been cosseted in the service.”

Biggleswade showed blank. Simon saw no reason to enlighten him.

“The remainder are all competent, you would say?”

“More than, sir. They have produced an efficient ship.”

Simon noticed the words the Paymaster had chosen. Normally, it was the captain who made a ship what it was.

“What of the gunroom?”

“Two subs, either capable of stepping up, sir, as soon as there is a vacancy. Both have their certificates. The two mids are both wartime intake and have a lot of learning to do. Both have messed about in boats as boys and are capable of coxing their cutters. Neither is another Nelson.”

“Few of us are, Paymaster. What of the flotilla? Seven captains, one of them a lieutenant commander, I presume.”

“Griffin, sir. Funnily enough, he is probably the least competent of the lot. He was working with minesweepers; due to a cousin on Beatty’s staff, he was able to swing a destroyer when he was made. Because of seniority, he had to have the half-flotilla, of course. The little I have seen of him, suggests you may well need to ease him out, sir. That will be difficult, because he is one of Beatty’s people and you are not. Service politics, sir.”

Simon had not been aware that he was known to be one of Jellicoe’s people. He had never met Jellicoe, knew of him only as one of Fisher’s products and the most senior of seagoing admirals.

“Yes, sir. You are one of Commodore Tyrwhitt’s followers, sir, and he is a strong supporter of Jellicoe. Actually, sir, to be precise, he dislikes Beatty far more than he approves of Jellicoe. Like any senior officer, he has to belong to one party or the other. No room for neutrality in today’s Navy, sir!”

An advantage of the widespread nature of the factions was that neither admiral could do much to disadvantage the opposition – there were simply too many bodies involved to be able to post out the other’s people.

“So, wait until he makes a visible faux pas and then send him on his way… Let us hope he sinks no ships, kills no men the while.”

“More like to sink a few buoys trying to pick up a mooring, sir. Not a good idea to put him alongside if it can be avoided, sir. He insists on conning the ship, won’t hand over to the coxswain but is used to an eight knot sweeper.”

“That could be funny. I must think of witty signals to send. The other six captains?”

“Destroyermen, sir. Small ships through and through, several of them with service dating back to the introduction of the oily wads. Joined as mids and able never to leave the boats.”

“Good. A signal in the morning, ‘gin pennant flying at sixteen hundred hours’. Square it with Mr Strachan.”

Hosting the captains and their first lieutenants would mean use of the wardroom, requiring the permission of the President.

“Will do, sir.”

Simon’s dinner appeared, bringing the meeting to an end.

“A pork chop and fresh vegetables, Packer. Well done at this time of year.”

“Didn’t ask no questions of the cook, sir.”

The Navigator arrived first in the morning.

“Knyvett, sir.”

He was dressed in doeskins, the most expensive of uniform cloths, displayed gold cufflinks and collar studs and was wearing a large and shiny wristwatch. Simon suspected an income greater than his, which was rarely large for the Navy.

They exchanged salutes, crisp and precise – no languid, fashionable sloppiness.

“Take a seat, Mr Knyvett. How long since you completed your courses?”

“Pre-war, sir. Three years ago.”

He had attended the full, long course, not the abbreviated wartime version.

“Good. Useful to have a fully qualified man in your position. All up to scratch in your domain?”

“I could use a junior, sir. One of the youngsters to learn the trade.”

“Sensible to have another man who can find a position to a second… Would either sub be suitable?”

“Not ideal, sir. The younger midshipman seems to have more than two brain cells to rub together.”

“Is he interested?”

“I think so, sir. I have sounded him out. Hedges, by name. By way of being a bit of an oik – father is a trawler owner – but a sound seaman in the making.”

“That’s what we need in time of war. Well spotted. Take him under your wing. Tell Mr Strachan. None of the lieutenants interested or suitable?”

“Salt horse, all of them. None to set the world on fire. None of them incapable, to my knowledge. I don’t know about the new man, joined only yesterday.”

“Higgins?”

“That’s him. All I know of him is that he tripped over the coaming entering the wardroom.”

“Only once?”

“Why, yes, sir. Was that not sufficient?”

Knyvett risked half a smile.

“An improvement on his general performance. Do not permit Higgins entrance to your chartroom, Mr Knyvett. If he does not burn it down, he will fall onto your instruments and blunt all of your pencils by looking at them. He is a disaster on two legs. He is my albatross!”

“I am not sufficiently familiar with the Ancient Mariner to comment, sir. I did notice a DSC.”

“He has a Mention as well.”

Simon explained the manner in which Higgins had won his medals.

“And he is yours to nurture in the Service, sir? Might I enquire why?”

“Ask and conjecture all you will, Mr Knyvett. My lips are sealed. Try not to make too much of a fuss about his provenance. If possible, I shall push him across to one of these new little torpedo boats they are bringing into service. A wild, unthinking crazy man may make an impact there.”

“Why, sir?”

“After the war, he may well be let loose upon Society. If he has a chestful of decorations, he may end up with a rich wife who will cosset him and keep him out of harm’s way. His mother will be made most happy by that.”

“What of his father, sir?”

Knyvett was beginning to have suspicions.

“Damned good question, Mr Knyvett! Who is next down the list?”

“Third in line for command if an unfortunate shell hits the bridge, sir? Guns, I am afraid.”

Knyvett said no more, stood saluted and left, content that the new captain was aware of his many virtues.

Strachan ushered the gunnery lieutenant into the cabin, a smile twitching.

“Mr Jackson, sir.”

A great, shambling bear of a man with a black beard to his chest, hiding all except nose and brown eyes. He stiffened into a rigid Whale Island attention and salute.

“Sir!”

His voice was pitched to be heard over a fifteen inch battleship gun. It was deafening.

“Take a seat, Mr Jackson. How is your department for readiness?”

“Short of live firing, sir. Fast in dumbshow. Need a few rounds on a range, sir. Or on a target at sea, sir.”

“Full magazines?”

“Yes, sir. Finally. Taken a long time, sir.”

“Good. What of the high angle gun?”

“Three pounder, sir. Fused shells. Airburst. Don’t know about them, sir. For aeroplanes. Or Zeppelins.”

“Increasingly a nuisance, aeroplanes. Are those Vickers on the bridge?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Swann got them, sir. Not me. Need four men.”

“What is their mounting?”

“Pintle, sir. High angle if needed.”

“Very good. Have you anything tucked away against need?”

Jackson looked about him, rather theatrically, making sure there were no hidden spies.

“Got hold of four Lewis Guns, sir. Infantry pattern, to be carried by a boarding party, if needs be.”

“Excellent! I am much in favour of initiative.”

“Automatic pistols as well, sir. Belgian guns. Emptied a gun shop in Antwerp, to keep them out of the hands of the Germans. Brought them with me, being as I could not hand them over, officially, that was. I was aboard Cressy, sir, was sent ashore with a few hands to assist with the evacuation, ended up left ashore, sir. Pinched a little coaster and got out with some soldiers, sir. And with the automatics. Posted to Naiad in the yard, not sent back to Cressy, which was lucky.”

“Damned fortunate, if you ask me, Jackson! Lucky for Naiad that you are here. All well with the guns, otherwise?”

“New four inch, sir. New design and they keep jamming. Need to be replaced. Can’t get them right. Design is faulty, in my opinion.”

That was not good news.

“What of the six inch?”

“Good guns, sir. All I could ask for.”

“What range?”

“Fifteen thousand yards, sir. Not that you would want to fire them at that distance. No point to it. Broadsides at five cables, sir, that’s the way to do it!”

“I want to hit a submarine’s conning tower at the limit of practical visibility, Mr Jackson. Shall we say eight thousand yards?”

Whale Island did not indulge in such dabbling, it seemed.

“Four nautical miles, sir? That’s a long way.”

“So it is.”

Jackson realised that his new master was not joking, said that he would do his best.

“I am sure you will. This war demands the best of all of us, Mr Jackson. What of torpedoes?”

“Have not fired yet, sir. No dummy heads. Fairly sure of our speed and efficiency, sir. The depth bombs, the same. Nothing to practice with.”

“Very well. I shall inspect them when I look round the ship, of course. Thank you, Mr Jackson.”

The big man left, far less sure of himself than when he had entered.

“That is the two department heads, sir. I will send the remainder through by seniority, I presume? What of the engineroom?”

“The three together – I cannot talk technicalities with them. Doctor as well, after the bulk of the seaman lieutenants and the junior Guns.”

Eight lieutenants, one after the other, two minutes apiece – all products of the pre-war Navy, competent deck officers, the one gunnery specialist not yet standing out.

“Not yet been to Whale Island, sir. Waiting my turn.”

The Doctor showed himself to be as expected – young, newly qualified and seemingly competent.

“I need at least one more orderly, sir. Only two, which is insufficient for three hundred men.”

“Posted in or have you an eye on one of the lower deck?”

“A new body, if you please, sir.”

“I will make the request. I cannot guarantee that a man will come. You are sure that none of the hands could be turned across to you?”

“The captain’s steward, perhaps, sir. He will be at a loose end as well, will have to fit in as a wardroom waiter, perhaps.”

“Why did he not go with the captain when he left?”

It seemed very poor behaviour, to leave one’s servant behind.

“I believe he had fallen out with the captain, sir. Disapproving of his behaviour, sir.”

“You know the story? Out with it, man!”

The Doctor told all. Captain and first lieutenant had become firm friends, which was not too uncommon, had gone ashore together for the evening, had drunk more than was wise and returned to the ship in company with a pair of ladies of the night, had proceeded to make hay in the cabin.

The story had reached the Commodore’s ears and the two officers had taken the trains to Scapa Flow, there to join the complements of separate battleships, their careers no longer glittering.

“From captain of a new light cruiser, acting commander, to lieutenant commander and head of a department in a battlewagon, sir – one of many and most undistinguished! The lieutenant, of course, suffered less, still being within reason senior and with a chance of promotion.”

“Silly of them. Small wonder that the crew are not too upset – envious, if anything!”

The engineers appeared, solid men, knowing their own worth.

“McKechnie, sir. Lieutenants Crowe and Jarvis.”

“Please be seated, gentlemen. I will not ask you of your engines, Mr McKechnie – I doubt I would understand your reply. What sort of speed can you give me?”

“A fraction in excess of twenty-eight knots for two or three hours, sir. Twenty-six for two days unbroken. Fifteen days at a cruising speed of fourteen knots. Very reliable, sir, the engines they have given me.”

“Good. I shall try to inform you ahead of any violent manoeuvring. How are you for bodies?”

To Simon’s amaze, the engineroom was up to complement and had the correct skill levels as well.

“Room for a youngster to train up, that’s all, sir.”

“Any of your ERAs who could make the step to a commission, Mr McKechnie?”

“One, sir.”

“Good, bring him on and I will strongly support your recommendation. We need new bodies.”

The subs and midshipmen were as expected – brightly polished and silent in the presence of the Captain. They also took two minutes apiece.

“That’s done, Mr Strachan. Shall we inspect the ship? Did you hear the tale of the previous owner, by the way?”

Strachan was much entertained, though disparaging of their foolishness. Not the sort of behaviour that could go unnoticed in a naval base such as Harwich.

“Might get away with it in Dunkerque, sir. Not here.”

“Get away with a lot of things across the Channel, Strachan. As you say, unwise here. Upper deck first, beginning at the stern. Have you ever seen a depth bomb? Do you have any idea what to do with them?”

Strachan shook his head. They adjusted their caps and moved out, in command and knowing everything, ready to look with supercilious eye at the new weapon and to imply they understood all. Captains knew all there was to be known, by order.

Chapter Twelve

“Had a good Christmas, Baker?”

“Surprisingly enjoyable, sir. Served the men their meal, sir, in the old way, at thirteen hundred, when they eat, the officers acting as waiters and finding enough bottles to make every head spin! Had a damned good dinner ourselves in the evening. Hawkeswill managed to get hold of geese and chicken as well as some good roasts of beef. Don’t know how he did it – didn’t ask – best meal I have had in a year! Put him to bed roaring drunk – I think we all of us had a glass with him!”

Brigadier Braithwaite was pleased for them – that was the way it should be done, the old way of the professional army, bringing officers and men together.

“New year’s gift has come my way, Baker. I have been made – I am a major general now. On my way back Home tomorrow to take over a division of the New Army. Several of us old hands being sent back from Flanders to give some much-needed experience, train them up prior to coming out in May.”

“Congratulations, sir. Who is to take over?”

“No idea – haven’t been told. Doesn’t matter to you, Baker. You are coming back with me, as a brigadier – acting, not substantive. Wartime promotion, of course. You have been made substantive as a major, that’s as low as you can fall when the war ends – which it is expected to within three months of the New Army being unleashed on the Hun!”

“One of the ‘boy brigadiers’, sir.”

“Yes, dearly loved by the gutter press. The newspapers will be full of it – your photograph being trotted out again with all of the normal nonsense. The ‘Hero of the Bridge’ and all that tosh – you will have to put up with that again. Take command immediately, shake them up as necessary, give yourself four weeks at the end of February, thereabouts. You will need a good leave, man!”

“A wedding as well, sir, with your permission.”

“So I thought. Granted on condition I receive an invitation!”

“Consider it done, sir. Where do we go and when?”

“I shall pick you up, staff car and lorry for baggage, zero eight hundred hours precisely, in the morning. Off to Calais and we should reach Aldershot by evening. Take over next morning. Your Major Vokes has the battalion, acting colonel. You may inform him at soonest. You have permission to take a lieutenant with you for staff. Your own choice.”

“Not bloody Wincanton, that’s for sure, sir! Michaels, I think – make a change to see a staff lieutenant with a piece of honest ribbon on his chest.”

“Excellent! In the morning, Baker!”

Braithwaite hung up and left Richard wondering what to do first.

“Paisley!”

The batman appeared, trying to look as if he had not been eavesdropping.

“Put up sergeant’s stripes, Paisley. Can’t have a mere lance corporal as batman to a brigadier!”

There was no reason in Regulations why that should be so. Paisley was not about to argue.

“Pack up ready to move at eight tomorrow. Send the word for Major Vokes, please.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll put up the three stars, sir.”

Major Vokes came in at the run.

“What’s up, sir? Flap on? Are we sent back up the line early?”

“No. You are to take over the battalion, acting colonel. Put the rank up with effect from breakfast tomorrow. I am to be made a brigadier in the New Army, under Braithwaite as major general. I don’t know his replacement. I am to take a lieutenant with me as staff. I thought Michaels?”

Vokes quickly assumed the gravest of expressions, shaking his head solemnly.

“I am sure Wincanton would be better suited to the function, sir. A fine, upstanding young fellow and at home in Society as well as in the Army!”

“Balls, Vokes!”

“As you say, sir. I will be unhappy to lose a man of Michaels’ stature, sir. Easily the best of the subalterns. A fighting man, through and through.”

It was a fair point. Taking Michaels away would to an extent impair the battalion. The loss of Wincanton, on the other hand, might go a way to improving their efficiency.

“I owe the battalion a favour, I suppose… Very well. Inform Wincanton of his good fortune and make sure he is ready to go in the morning, Vokes. Pack his bag and hold his hand for him, I would suggest.”

“I shall pass the word quietly. The appointment will be much favoured – I am sure that all will agree he will make a good staff officer.”

“You mean he is utterly useless and only marginally qualifies as a member of the human race?”

“Precisely, sir! Just what one expects of the breed.”

Richard shook his head.

“I trust you will all appreciate the sacrifices I have made for this battalion, Vokes. My congratulations, by the way. In my opinion you are more than capable of leading a battalion. I had, in fact, previously recommended that you should go back to Blighty, to take over a New Army battalion. Staying here in the 8th will be better for you and for the men. With your agreement, I shall inform the Mess tonight before dinner.”

“A good idea, sir. Sensible to inform them all in the evening rather than expect them to understand anything at the breakfast table. What of the RSM, sir?”

“O’Grady? I cannot take him with me, can I?”

Richard’s knowledge of the Regulations was far less than Vokes’. He had no years of peacetime service behind him, had had no opportunity to peruse The Book and discover all of its wrinkles.

“It is possible, sir. If you need to establish an administrative cadre then a senior warrant officer could head the new organisation. Not as a sergeant major, as such, but at equivalent rank.”

“I shall speak to Braithwaite.”

“Sir, I am told that I may need a warrant officer to set up my administration, run my offices for me.”

“I wondered when that would occur to you, Baker. Strictly speaking, it cannot be done – you should look for a body on a Home posting, unfit for service at the Front. In practice, all things are possible when a general and a brigadier wish to fiddle them. I understand that O’Grady is a reformed character, has forsworn the booze?”

“He has become a model of all that a soldier should be, sir. I will be pleased to have him at my shoulder when we come out in May.”

“Let it be so. I shall arrange the papers for our party. Yourself, Michaels and O’Grady together with your batman, I believe.”

“No, sir. Major Vokes fell down on bended knee before me, begged that I should not take Michaels from him. He is far the best of the subalterns for his aggressive spirit, I must admit. Wasted on the staff. In exchange for suggesting that I take O’Grady, Vokes offered me Wincanton.”

“He, of course, is ideal for the position, being utterly useless as a soldier. I shall put his name in place of Michaels.”

Wincanton was called to the colonel’s office, found him there with Major Vokes. He stood to attention and saluted, remembering to use the right hand, wondering what he had forgotten to do.

“Back to England for five months, sir, as your staff? Oh, please, sir! My father will be so delighted, sir, especially that I am working to you, sir!”

Richard hid his distaste. He thought he disliked Wincanton’s father slightly more than the son.

“Be ready for eight o’clock in the morning, Wincanton. If you are so much as one minute late, I shall go without you and find a replacement in England.”

Wincanton swore he would be on time, early in fact, and ran off to find the servant he shared and make a nuisance of himself while the man packed for him.

Sergeant Major O’Grady came next.

“If you wish, ‘Major, you are to be my warrant officer in charge of my brigade’s office. Aldershot until May, when we bring the New Army across to France.”

“Thank you, sir. Working to you will keep me happy, sir. I shall require one day to gen up my successor in the battalion. I can then make my own way to Aldershot, sir, given the papers and travel warrants.”

“See Mr Hawkeswill. He will deal with all of that.”

O’Grady saluted and marched out, nodding to Paisley as he left.

“Why, Paisley?”

“Never said it, sir, and don’t know nothing. He can’t just walk out, sir, without handing over the deals to Jim Crowe what will take over. Jim’s not the senior sergeant, but he’s the one they reckon is best. He has to take him to the rear and make him known to the right people, sir. Can’t leave the battalion without its supplies, sir.”

“You mean the gin and vanrouge and fresh bread and cheese that turns up every week or two?”

“That’s right, sir. The stuff you don’t know nothing about. Don’t grow on trees, do it?”

“How does he pay for it, Paisley?”

Paisley put a finger to the side of his nose, the sign that he was not actually saying anything, was not to be quoted.

“Got his store of souvenirs, sir. From the trenches we took at Loos. He puts them to his middleman and they go to the docks and back to England. Good money for them there. Helmets and belt buckles and those Lugers get most. Any sorts of badges fetch a few bob. Bayonets as well. Rifles, if they can get them across – a bit big and bulky, they are. German paybooks sell as well, especial if they got a bit of blood on them. I know they want one of them Parabellum machine guns, if they can get hold of one, but they’re much too big a risk, so the ‘Major thinks.”

Richard was amazed at the almost industrial scale of the black-market activities. It was none of his business, however. Officers had a blind eye to turn – he must use it.

“Who buys the stuff, do you know, Paisley?”

“Not as to say ‘know’, no, sir. From what I hear, and from who I can’t say, it is men in reserved occupations back in England. You know the sorts, sir – ‘Nothing I want more than to go out and do my bit, but my job is too important. They won’t let me go!’”

“So they collect souvenirs and a few years after the war ends, when the memories have faded, they will have the stories of how they ‘happened to pick them up’ during the War.”

“That’s it, sir. Going to be an awful lot of heroes, twenty years from now.”

“Still, you will always be able to tell who was actually over here, Paisley. They will be the ones sat at the back of the pub with nothing at all to say. Too many memories to need to shout their mouths off!”

“Might be right at that, sir. The more the bullshit, the less the action as a rule, sir.”

The docks at Calais were better organised than Richard remembered and full of Military Police. Despite their rank, the pair of officers and their two staff lieutenants had their papers checked three times before reaching the boat.

A sergeant was willing to speak rather than grunt a demand for ‘documents’.

“Pass through, sir. Officers to the first gangway.”

Paisley and Braithwaite’s man looked about for porters, reluctantly carried the luggage aboard themselves.

“Don’t allow any spare bodies near the ferries, sir. Keep an eye on every man working here.”

“Deserters?”

“Pick up a few every week, sir. Some of them with good papers, too. Had a captain come through last week, sir. Everything right except the travel warrant – bit smudged on the name and the date where he had borrowed somebody else’s and changed them a bit. Not very happy when we took him in charge, sir. Said he had swapped with a pal who didn’t mind waiting a few more weeks. He wasn’t doing any harm, he said. Just wanted to get back home and see the missus. So do we all!”

Braithwaite was intrigued – it was not the behaviour of an officer as he understood it.

“What will happen to him, Sergeant?”

“Up to the court, sir. Any we pick up here go to a court automatic, like. That’s the rules. No chance of getting a wigging from their colonel and getting extra duties. Being as he is a captain, sir, I reckon the court martial won’t be soft on him. Expect better of an officer, sir, especially one what’s got a company. Shouldn’t reckon they’ll shoot him – they’ll find Absent Without Leave, not Desertion, being as how he was going to come back again. Break him, for sure, sir. Private soldier and stuck in an infantry battalion at the Front. No leave until the war ends and then a dishonourable discharge. No chance of promotion. No nothing.”

It was harsh, for sure, but the man had shown unreliable – an officer who could do that sort of thing could never be trusted again.

“You did well to spot him, Sergeant. Do you think any do get through?”

“I’m sure they do, sir. Get a battalion going Home on leave, the private soldiers just flash their paybooks. Provided you’ve got a paybook for the right regiment, you’re through. Can’t really check them. They get wet and muddy, no matter how well the men look after them, so the writing can easily be a bit smudged and you can’t argue with five hundred men, one after another. No, it’s the clever ones we catch, sir – the bright sparks who forge an officer’s papers and warrant and get hold of the correct uniform and come through on their own. We had a major, so called, last month. Everything right except he didn’t have a batman and was carrying his own valise. When we checked, his battalion had never heard of him. If he’d had enough sense to come with a mate, carrying his bags, he’d have got away with it.”

They chuckled and walked up the companionway and into the first class lounge, exchanging salutes with a few leave officers and taking seats at a spare table. A steward ran with drinks and sandwiches, apologising that it was not like the old days, they had to make do, he feared.

A Military Police lieutenant appeared soon after they cast off, checking all papers, very politely but firm in his insistence.

“Brigadier Baker? Ah, yes.”

He showed recognition of the name, nodded respectfully.

A final check at quayside in Dover followed by Customs, disappointed that their bags contained neither bottles nor tobacco. An hour and they were aboard the train to London, slower than in peacetime but still nonstop, reaching Charing Cross in the early afternoon.

“How do we get to Aldershot, Paisley?”

“Waterloo, sir. Need taxis to get across. If they still got them.”

There were no taxis, all off the road due to a temporary shortage of petrol, a not uncommon event. The Army had a transport office and found a tender to take the senior officers the short journey across the south of London.

“Majors and below take the omnibus, sir. Or the Underground. More senior officers are granted transport. Batmen and baggage have to use the same vehicle, sir.”

A Scammel lorry, space on the bench seat in the cab for the two senior officers, baggage, batmen and lieutenants up in the tray.

“Undignified, Baker!”

“Better than a bus, sir, crammed in among the civilians.”

Braithwaite shuddered at the prospect. He preferred his civilians to be kept at arm’s length.

“Have you ever used a bus, Baker?”

“Only when we went to war in August, sir. We all took buses across from St Pancras, if you recall. Used one again a couple of months later.”

“That’s right. I remember now.”

The lorry crawled into Waterloo, walking pace because of the mass of bodies, all in khaki. The platforms and forecourt were jammed with men, all with their rifles and kitbags.

The driver nodded at them.

“All them going to the east part of Salisbury Plain comes here, sir. Them going across to the west use Paddington Station. Hell of a lot coming down from the North and going to Aldershot, sir. Looks like the New Army is all being brought together, sir. Special troop trains coming down from Catterick every day, sir. Thing to do, sir, is to get hold of a redcap and have him lead you through to the ticket office, sir.”

The driver whistled and waved to a corporal, beckoned him across. The policeman stiffened at the sight of a general accompanied by a brigadier, a sufficiency of rank to drop him into deep trouble if they were offended. He spotted the splash of colour on Richard’s breast, saluted rigidly, immediately willing to assist fighting officers rather than the mass of Home Front warriors he saw more commonly.

“Four officers for Aldershot, Corporal.”

“Thank you, Driver. I will take them from here.”

All very formal, Richard saw, approvingly. They were in public, should be making the correct show.

The corporal beckoned to four of his men, brought them to his front to act as escort, ploughing their way in a straight line to his destination.

“Warrants, if you please, sir.”

First class tickets appeared in less than five minutes, together with third for the batmen.

“Not running second class no more, sir. Put the men with your bags in the guard’s van, sir. Be safer there, the bags, that is, and more comfortable for the men than jammed in with some other battalion. Guard will have the kettle on as soon as you pull out.”

The corporal headed for a standing train, double-checked it was bound for Aldershot, ushered the pair into a crowded carriage immediately next to the dining car. He put his head into a compartment containing a major, two captains and three lieutenants, all happily comfortable and pleased with themselves for grabbing a place where they would have a chance of eating, could certainly get a drink.

“Beg pardon, Major. General and Brigadier and staff require seats.”

They stood reluctantly, knowing that they would not find another compartment, would have to push in where they could, the lieutenants certainly standing all the way. There was a quick elbow in the major’s ribs, eyes turned meaningfully to Richard’s chest. Salutes followed.

Richard heard their voices as they stalked down the corridor.

“Bedfordshires. Got to be Baker. Made brigadier! Man can’t be thirty yet, by the look of him!”

Braithwaite showed amused.

“You look older than your years, Baker. What are you actually?”

“Twenty-one, sir.”

Braithwaite whistled.

“A Boy Brigadier indeed! Not the youngest, even so. Close to, must be.”

Wincanton and Braithwaite’s man were staring open-mouthed, neither having realised Richard’s age.

“Not to be discussed, I think, gentlemen!”

They hurriedly agreed it was not a matter for public debate.

The train remained in the station for half an hour, finally heaved itself out onto the mainline and pottered off towards Hampshire, occasionally reaching express speeds, more often chugging along at thirty or so miles an hour. Sometimes it stopped, for no apparent reason, out in the middle of the winter countryside, barren and empty.

“Silver birch – miles of them, Baker. Lovely in spring. Bleak at this time of year.”

Richard agreed – he had no knowledge of the countryside, accepted the trees to be silver birch from the colour of their bark. He was far more interested in the steward who appeared at the door.

“Not got no restaurant service, gentlemen. Can do ham sandwiches and tea, if you wants.”

The bread was the previous day’s but the tea was strong and welcome.

“Four o’clock, Baker! Damned near three hours for a journey that used to be eighty minutes at most!”

There was transport at the station, waiting on the offchance of senior officers appearing, a common enough event at the largest depot in Britain.

The problem arose of which of a dozen messes they should be taken to.

“Beg pardon, sir. Enquire at the guardroom will be best. If you are due today, you will be on a list.”

“War Office orders are to report today, soldier.”

“Shouldn’t be no problem, sir.”

Reaching the gates, the sergeant of the guard turned his men out for the general officer salute, was left wrong-footed when he spotted the VC, which took precedence.

“Beg pardon, sir.”

“Carry on, Sergeant.”

The familiar words brought comfort, giving the sergeant the choice of action to take.

Formalities complete, he looked at his list.

“Major General Braithwaite; Brigadier Baker, VC. Staff officers. Waterloo Mess, gentlemen, overnight. You are to go out to the barracks at Arborfield, near Reading, in the morning, sir. Your Division has been brought together there. Transport for nine o’clock, sir.”

“Zero nine hundred hours, is that, Sergeant?”

“Not in the Home Establishment, sir. Only used overseas, sir, the twenty-four hour clock. Don’t have twenty-four hours in the working day in England, sir.”

Braithwaite showed irritated.

“Bloody well see about that tomorrow, man!”

“Yes, sir. Your drivers know where to go, sir. They will take you to the Waterloo Mess building, sir. Tenth and Twelfth Battalion of the Bedfords there, sir, which is why you were put there.”

“Twelve battalions in the Regiment now, Sergeant?”

“No, sir. Fifteen. Not the biggest, the Hampshires have got twenty-two, sir, might be others with more. Spread all over the world, as well. Not usual to have two of the same regiment together, sir.”

They knew almost none of the officers, recognising a few faces who had been transferred from the First and Second to offer professional expertise. Unsurprisingly, they were known themselves, being renowned figures in the Regiment.

Dinner partook of a formality unknown outside of the chateaux of the generals in France. All officers were dressed and the settings were of silver. The meal had only five courses, the President of the Mess, a Major Danby, apologised, blaming wartime hardships.

“How do you find things in France, General? I should imagine the Mess is able to lay its hands on some good wine!”

“I am told they can do so in the rear areas, Major. There is no mess as such in the Trenches, of course – the officers eat in their dugouts, sharing the food sent up for the whole battalion. At Brigade I was able to do a little better, but still only a soup and a main course, accompanied by water or vanrouge. You won’t have met up with that particular vintage in England – it tastes a little less harsh than battery acid but probably has a similar effect on the human gut! Safer than water, however, and I cannot drink tea with my meal!”

“Truly, General?”

The Major wondered if he was not the victim of some elaborate and obscure joke. He had observed that those who had spent time in France tended to be almost contemptuous of the Home Establishment, thought that might be the case here.

“Utterly, Major. When you come out, you will discover the reality. I presume your battalion will join the New Army in May?”

“No, General. We are bound for Ireland next month. Garrison there. Ourselves for the Curragh and the Twelfth for Cork.”

“Ah, well. We cannot all serve where the glory is.”

The Major did not seem much comforted by that reflection, though he did think they would eat better in Ireland.

Wincanton gravitated to Richard’s side in the Mess later. He had been uncharacteristically quiet, Richard thought, hardly saying a word over dinner, unlike his normal braying self.

“It’s not like real soldiering, is it, sir? I don’t think they know what it means to have stood in a trench. I am not to say I am the best of soldiers, sir. I do have some idea of what is what, though.”

“You do, Wincanton. Your Mention is sufficient evidence of that. A pity there is no ribbon for a Mention. There should be something. It is a recognition of gallantry and should be displayed with pride.”

Richard deliberately spoke just loud enough to be overheard. The word spread quickly that the staff lieutenant had an award for gallantry, caused an amount of irritation among the younger men who now suspected that he had remained silent in their company for looking down on them.

The Major was heard to say that it made sense – an officer with Baker’s record would want fighting men about him.

“Might be one of the ‘boy brigadiers’ – the gilded youth, and all that – but nobody can argue his prowess. Don’t know how old he is, mark you – could be a youthful forty, which is still young for the rank. Personally, I suspect he’s no more than thirty.”

Wincanton was into his second brandy, more than sufficient to breach the bounds of discretion in his case, his head being weak for alcohol as well.

“He is twenty-one, Major. Just. He looks older for having the years at sea before coming out to Flanders. That puts years on all of us.”

“I might have thought that he would have needed more experience before reaching his rank.”

“Experience of what, Major? He has been out since August ’14, almost unbroken. Nobody can have more experience than that. Not of the war we are fighting now.”

The word ‘we’ did not go down well – it seemed to imply there were those who fought and lesser souls who did not. Wincanton was unaware he had caused offence, finished his brandy and thought he might be wise not to take a third. Richard noticed him wave a mess waiter away, was surprised by the evidence of maturity.

“Don’t see much in the way of brandy in the Trenches, you know. No head for alcohol, these days – not like you chaps who can sit in a Mess every night!”

Conversation was strained after that.

The visiting pair retired early, pleading a long day of travelling and too many disturbed nights prior.

Richard slept badly, the bed too comfortable, the room too warm.

They breakfasted together, made their farewells and boarded the front vehicles of the waiting convoy.

There were two staff cars and four lorries lined up. Paisley and Braithwaite’s batmen threw their half a dozen suitcases and their own kitbags aboard the first lorry, waited for the other three to fill up, wondering who else was coming with them.

Major Danby enquired if the rest of their baggage was following behind.

“I remember going down to Cape Town, sir, as a captain. I had eight trunks and the general must have had sixteen! Quite filled the hold, the sailors told me, all of us together!”

Braithwaite had little patience early in the morning.

“Did the same myself, in that war, Danby. This is a different kettle of fish! In the line, one requires a pair of working uniforms and nothing more. Behind, in the rear areas, one needs a little more but certainly no great mass of dress and undress and parade and ceremonial and ball dress as one did at peace. Those days are gone, major. We are a fighting army now, concerned more with killing the Hun than looking pretty! Good day to you now. Thank you for your hospitality.”

The three vehicles drove off, leaving the remainder to return to their workshop.

“Bloody trunks, Baker!”

“Two separate armies, sir. Those of us who have been out and those who have not. Idling in Ireland! Complaining because there are no more than five courses for dinner! I would like to have seen Danby sitting down to lukewarm mutton stew as his whole dinner!”

“Very much so, Baker! Glad we are to be at a distance. Had we remained in Aldershot we should inevitably have been invited to Guest Nights with them. No doubt we shall have to put up with that sort of thing in Arborfield – bound to be more formality than we have enjoyed in Flanders. Not to worry! You will need to learn the ropes for the post-war Army. I presume you will stay in?”

“Probably, sir. Depends to an extent on Primrose. She may have plans for me. Provided they are not too outrageous – and I trust her good sense – I shall fall in with them. Be happy to, in fact. What of you, sir?”

“I think my lady wants me out, Baker. We have an estate to care for and she has some substantial holdings of her own – shares and things. I think she has it in mind that we shall make a splash in the City and in the West End after the war. If that is what she wants – well and good! Like you, Baker, I am lucky in my lady.”

There was a parade awaiting them as they reached Arborfield, a telephone call from Aldershot giving the timing.

The Adjutant of the battalion greeted them, addressing General Braithwaite.

“First Battalion, Northamptonshire Shoemakers, sir. A ‘pals’ battalion. Major Portman acting in command.”

“Whose brigade?”

“Brigadier Baker’s, sir. Six battalions, two brigades, in the barracks here, sir. The remaining brigade is in the old barracks at Reading, sir. Not too far distant.”

“Good. Let’s have a look at them.”

The better part of eight hundred men in their ranks, mostly young, below the age of twenty, all fit and healthy, the medically unsuitable weeded out. They presented well, smartly uniformed, rifles clean and held properly. The sergeants were older men, most with ten or more years in, gleaned from the old professional Army.

“Good looking battalion you have here, Portman. Are the others in the barracks the match of them?”

“Pretty much, yes, sir. Two of them are smaller men, across from the Black Country – they come a bit stunted there. One of them is from Dorset – half the men six-footers.”

“The Guards were always used to recruit there. Tall men in those parts for some reason. You have no colonel?”

“Coming in this week, sir. Sick list after the Dardanelles.”

“Knows his way around, then. What of your Mess? How many with experience of France?”

“None of us, sir. Myself and one captain who saw the Boxers. That’s it. The bulk are no more experienced than the men. Same in all of the brigades, I am told, sir.”

“Explains why they sent us across, Portman. A good parade. Thank you.”

The formal exchange of salutes commenced and the general withdrew and the men marched off to put on working uniforms and return to the hard slog of drill and practice in the butts.

Richard wanted to see his own people.

“What is my brigade, do you know, Portman?”

“Us and Princess Patricia’s Isle of Wight Rifles; Twelfth Wiltshires – Moonrakers, that is, sir.”

“Princess Patricia’s…”

“Yes, sir. Apparently, Her Highness has some connection with the Island, sir. They are Hampshires, I think. Their colonel has a slight lisp.”

The three maintained straight faces.

“How very unfortunate, Portman! We should not mock the afflicted!”

“Of course not, sir.”

General and Brigadier parted company, each led by a warrant officer to his set of offices and his personal quarters and then to meet his immediate juniors.

The offices had been recently and quickly constructed, were little more than waterproof huts, each big enough for a dozen desks. The senior officers had their separate rooms, all furnished to the official pattern and with an anteroom for the staff.

“Messing, sir. Brigadier is to dine in his own quarters for weekends and two days, rotating around his three Messes for luncheon and Dining In with each once a week. Your quarters are one of the houses over on the Reading road, sir, about a quarter of a mile distant.”

The Dining in was a nuisance, demanding too much formality, useful for bringing him into contact with the officers of each battalion.

“I shall pay fees to each Mess, of course.”

The warrant officer made no comment – each brigadier had his own habits.

“Are you in charge of my people, WO?”

“No, sir. I am a Moonraker, sir. Reached retirement age in ’14, sir, and was asked to stay on and get the new battalions up and running. When you go across to France, I shall be sent to another new battalion, sir, or to assist with the training of the conscripts, who are to be sent out to existing battalions in France rather than be made into their own battalions. I was refused for active service because of age, sir.”

“Wet, cold and muddy – it is no place for a man who has done his twenty years already.”

“So they tell me, sir. I have survived the mud in West Africa and the cold in China, sir. Take more than that to put me down.”

“What’s your name?”

“Freeman, sir.”

“Speak to me just before we go out in May, Freeman, if you are still of the same mind. I will arrange something.”

“Thank you, sir. Have you a warrant officer for your cadre, sir?”

“Coming in from France tomorrow. One of my Bedfordshires.”

“Very good, sir. I shall show him the ropes. Luncheon with the Dorsets today, sir. All of the Brigade’s field officers will be present.”

“Very good. Pass the word, please, that I expect working dress to breakfast and luncheon, Monday to Friday.”

“Habit has been to wear mess dress, sir, except when the battalion has been out on a route march. Once a week, that is.”

“A full fifteen miles in five hours with sixty pound pack and rifle?”

“Not quite, sir.”

“Pass the whisper, if you would, Freeman. Let it not come as too great a surprise.”

“The men will be able to handle it, sir.”

Richard noticed the lack of reference to officers.

“I suspect I must march along with the columns myself, Freeman.”

The warrant officer permitted himself a quick smile.

“That could offer a fine example, sir. Provided, of course, sir…”

“That I managed a full fifteen miles and still looked chipper at the end?”

Freeman left to pass the word that they had a soldier in command – a proper hard bastard, too!

Richard took to the telephone, reached the butler at Lord Elkthorn’s London house.

“Miss Patterson is out at the moment, sir. Shopping, one understands. She is due to attend an afternoon performance, a matinee of Joy-Land, in support of the Soldier’s Fund, sir. She is to dine here this evening. Might I suggest a call at seven o’clock, sir?”

Richard agreed – one did not argue with butlers, he had learned that.

Primrose was delighted, more with his presence in England than with the promotion.

“I am here till May. Taking the Brigade across to Flanders then. I can take four weeks in late February or March and April. Would you wish us to wed then?”

She would, at some length.

“I can get to London on Saturday and Sunday. Can you put me up or must I use a hotel?”

A hotel was wiser, she thought, removing them both from temptation.

“It is only January now – I must not risk a six months child, Richard!”

He agreed that would cause an upset in Society, was amused that she could discuss such an eventuality so calmly. He also noticed that she was looking forward to getting into a bed with him; he was in favour of that.

“A date for our wedding, my love?”

“I shall discuss all with my esteemed parents, Richard. We can come to an exact conclusion on Saturday.”

Three months passed rapidly, chasing his colonels, discovering two of them to be experienced in the new ways of war, one to be hopelessly out of contact with reality.

Colonels Moncur and Barnard-Hope had seen how modern war was fought, Moncur having just recovered from wounds taken at the Dardanelles. Barnard-Hope had been sent back from Flanders to give the benefit of his sixteen months of experience. Appleby had spent the war in garrison in Liverpool, recruiting Lancashire mill-hands and eating dinners with the local gentry; he was distinctly plump.

“Parade ground is the place for the men, sir! Learning to counter-march and form their files to left and right, column to line to square – that’s the way to do it!”

“We don’t have parades in the trenches, Appleby. No room for them.”

“Ah, yes, sir! Perfectly correct! The thing is, parades and drill teach the men obedience! That’s what they need!”

Appleby’s every sentence came as a half shout, normally emphasised by a fist slapping into the palm of his other hand.

“I rather like to encourage initiative among the men, Appleby. I like them to think for themselves.”

“Think, sir? Rankers don’t think! Only our sort of chaps who can think! If they could think, they wouldn’t be rankers! Stands to reason! I mean to say, sir, where would we be if the louts in the streets thought for themselves? Be the end of the world as we know it! No, sir. Drill, drill and more drill – that’s what they need!”

“I am afraid it is not what they are going to get, Appleby. One hour a day on the drill square. Two hours morning and afternoon in the butts, three days a week. Tuesday and Thursday and Saturday, a full fifteen mile route march, with pack and rifle. Other than that, I will have every man taught the basics of dressing a wound – putting on a tourniquet and such. That is what they need. Officers to accompany the men at all times, of course. Subalterns should learn the rifle; they will carry one frequently. As soon as it can be arranged, the men will learn to use the Mills Bomb. Every platoon will have a Lewis and every man should be taught the basics of loading and firing and clearing a jam.”

“What about on the march, sir?”

“No horses to hand in France, Appleby. Officers must be able to keep up with the men.”

The other two smiled quietly, Moncur catching Richard’s eye for permission to speak.

“My men always marched the better for seeing me at head, Appleby.”

Barnard-Hope agreed.

“They won’t fall out if you don’t, Appleby. Leading from the front – something the Brigadier knows all about and we must copy.”

Appleby was not at all sure that he could march for as much as fifteen miles. He was rapidly persuaded that he had no choice.

There was a sigh of relief when Richard went off on leave. Then the officers read the orders for continued route marches he had left behind and discovered that Moncur, acting in his place, had every intention of enforcing them.

“Four more weeks unbroken, Moncur! I am almost tempted not to turn up at his wedding to show how displeased I am!”

Moncur was not certain that the Brigadier would either notice or care. He did strongly suggest that the officers of the three battalions would regard such an action as disloyal.

“It would hardly be possible to retain your place after that, Appleby. Effectively, the end of your military career, you know. You would probably end up in command of a stores depot somewhere, there to moulder away till the end of the war and be found surplus to requirements thereafter.”

Appleby was not certain that was so terrible a fate. He was substantive in his rank, would have the full pension to supplement his private income, might be quite comfortable. If, on the other hand, he remained, he would be part of the victory that was sure to come, might manage to pick up a decoration as well, could be even better set up after the war as a Chief Constable or Chairman of the Hospital Board in his county, picking up a modest salary and huge expenses.

“Only joking, Moncur! Could never do something so damned disloyal, you know!”

Moncur hoped not. His own feet were sore but that was no excuse for moaning.

“Still, Appleby, be a damned good feast tomorrow. Rubbing shoulders with all the nobs. I know my wife is much looking forward to the day.”

Appleby was unwed, wondered if Moncur was taking a dig at him.

Chapter Thirteen

Working up a new flotilla was hard labour for all involved. Seven destroyers and a light cruiser had to learn the new commander’s ways and change their own habits, often reluctantly.

The Navy demanded that the commanding officer was king – his word was law. Simon began to discover the reality and to remember that not all kings had been able to exercise the power that was in theory theirs. His knowledge of history was limited, Dartmouth teaching only the naval version which tended to start and end with Nelson, but he had a slight recollection of any number of mediaeval kings losing their heads in battles with their own people. He could not be toppled from his throne, unless the flotilla showed inefficient – should that ever be the case, Tyrwhitt would see him gone within the day. He could, however, find himself forced to compromise, to allow his captains more freedom than he wished to do things in their own favourite fashion.

He had been appointed young and relatively inexperienced, which his captains knew. He was convinced this meant he brought a fresh point of view to their work; they seemed to believe it meant he was in need of guidance. Three days in and he was debating which of them was to be awarded the noble order of the boot as a warning to the other six.

Simon found himself with seven captains beneath him, six lieutenants-in-command, the seventh a recently made lieutenant commander, second in command overall and in charge of his half-flotilla. Five of the six were new made, in their first command; just one of the lieutenants had three months of experience commanding a destroyer in the Dover Patrol, had been transferred across to Harwich to provide a stiffening for the flotilla.

Lieutenant Commander Griffin had cut his teeth in minesweepers – hard, disciplined, dangerous work, performed at low speed and normally close inshore. It was a task that demanded precise navigation and unbroken concentration, keeping a flotilla manned almost entirely by reservists to an exact routine, leaving no awkward corners unswept, missing no part of a minefield. An officer who could excel in minesweepers was a man of outstanding ability, fit for a senior role, preferably as Commander in a battleship where his painstaking virtues were immediately applicable.

Simon had to turn Griffin into a destroyerman, achieving this trick overnight so that he could be an instant success in his half of the flotilla. Less than immediate competence could not be accepted – he was to be responsible for his own boat and three others.

“High speed work and snap decisions, Griffin. You rarely have ten seconds thinking time – you must give your orders with no delay at all. No possibility of muddling though, either. Get it wrong and you are likely to be dead. More importantly, so will your ships be!”

Griffin could accept that his own life was of secondary importance. That was the Navy way.

“Typically, Griffin, you will be up against full flotillas of German destroyers. They are faster than us and more heavily armed. After eighteen months of war in the Channel and southern North Sea, they are experienced and skilful. You must never allow them to reach as far as the Barrage. The small ships there are capable of catching and sinking submarines. That is their job. They cannot live against destroyers. The Barrage protects the cross-Channel traffic, as you know. If it is broken then we face disaster.”

Griffin was aware of the need to protect the Channel.

“We shall be patrolling at a distance from the Barrage, out into the North Sea as far as the Broad Fourteens and across to the Belgian coast. Our job will be to pick up anything coming down from the north, in addition to watching for sorties from the Belgian ports.”

“Yes, sir. I was aware of that. I have spent some time considering the problem and have come up with a patrol line that I think will serve us well.”

“No, Griffin. The last thing we need is a patrol line. We must never be predictable. Submarines will watch us and will use their wirelesses at night to tell the destroyers where we are so that they can either avoid us or lay up in ambush. They would very soon pick up any pattern in our behaviour. We cannot even get into a habit of say, three days out and two in Harwich – we would be observed.”

Griffin could not imagine that they were simply to venture out on random sorties, wandering the North Sea hopefully.

“Almost. We shall vary our patrols, in part according to information given us from the Commodore’s people, to a great extent depending on our own observations. Obviously, we shall be under the orders of the Patrol as a whole and may often be sent out with specific orders. When we are on our own, we must use our initiative.”

Simon smiled and then proceeded to make clear that the initiative in question was to be his alone.

“I shall give all captains a briefing before we go out. You will be at my side, having discussed the patrol with me first. What I would have in mind would be to beat up the coast from Dunkerque, holding inshore of the minefields, frequently, sometimes as a whole flotilla, others with half inshore of the fields, the remainder out to sea. That would be at night exclusively. The batteries are too big and too many to be ignored now – they have closed their coast in daylight hours. Following a run up coast, then skirt Dutch waters and reach out across as far as Dogger, thereabouts, and make a low speed patrol – fifteen knots – to keep submarines down. Boats at about four cables abeam of each other, working a long zigzag to cover as much sea as possible, reversing track at random interval, all simply aiming to make it too dangerous for submarines to attempt to make their passage surfaced in daylight hours.”

Griffin could not see the benefits of such action.

“We will make them take an extra day, perhaps two, on passage in and out of the Atlantic. That will cut down on the time they can spend on station, will slightly reduce their chances of making kills. Anything that saves our merchant ships will be a blessing, just at the moment, Griffin. The losses are becoming worrying, even with the restricted warfare the Kaiser has laid down. You know that we have almost no chance of detecting a submarine when submerged in the open sea – the only thing we can do is harass them, make them a little less effective.”

“Would we not be wiser to patrol at lower speeds, sir? Fifteen knots is rather high for our purpose.”

“The Commodore has laid down that fifteen knots is to be the minimum for patrol. No submarine can attain more than twelve knots surfaced – or so we believe to be the case. Fifteen knots prevents them observing us and then headreaching to attain an ambush point off our bows. Submarines do not make beam attacks on warships if they can be avoided – they much prefer to shoot from off the bow at about four cables, particularly when dealing with small ships. Same rule for us, of course.”

“You mean we should not make torpedo attacks except when bows on to the foe, sir?”

Simon was not sure he liked the word ‘foe’ – it was Victorian, might give an indication to the man’s habits of thought.

“Generally, yes, Griffin. Use torpedoes sparingly on small, fast ships – they are the most difficult of targets. Your Gunner will have his opinions there, I do not doubt. Remember as well that reloads are in short supply. A torpedo used today may not be replaced for a week or two; the Commodore’s people say that the munitions shortage is almost at an end but it is as well still to be careful with our expenditure.”

Griffin had not heard that there was a shortage. It had not affected him on minesweeping duty.

“Not just us, Griffin. The Hun as well are under orders to conserve their torpedoes, the more I expect because their submarines need them, must have their loads if they are to do anything at all.”

“Makes us sound more like shopkeepers than naval officers, sir!”

“We must live with the circumstances we find, Griffin. Returning to the point. We may not work the Belgian coast at all on some nights, more or less at random, though I am inclined not to try to follow the inshore passage when there is no moon. Might be profitable to lay to off Zeebrugge on occasion, simply wait in the swept passage out of the harbour. In that case, half the flotilla inshore, the other four boats out to sea on a sweep for submarines coming in or out. Might be that that we could pick up minesweepers or, less commonly, minelayers coming out on business as well. Always useful to sink them. Means that the Hun will have to send replacements down from Kiel. They will cut through Dutch waters, most likely, and irritate the Dutch government, which is always to our benefit.”

Simon explained why it was desirable that the Dutch should be at loggerheads with the Germans.

“Keeps them neutral on our side, you might say, Griffin. Handy, that. I must at this point formally warn you that any breach of Dutch neutrality by our ships will result in a court and certain dismissal of the captain from his ship and probable loss of his commission. The Admiralty will accept no excuse other than your ship out of control due to storm damage or enemy action – if you sink in Dutch waters, you will probably be exonerated, preferably posthumously!”

“You just said that the Germans habitually breach Dutch neutrality, sir.”

“They do. We don’t. The Dutch know that and act accordingly. They are building coastal defence ships, I am told. A year at most and they will be able to defend their neutrality. For the while, every breach they observe is beneficial to us. Interned soldiers are put on ships home and escapees are escorted to the ports and sent off to England without charge – because the Dutch are angered by the German contempt for their rights. The Commodore has told me that the bulk of the soldiers interned in ’14 have been returned to England, repatriated on medical grounds, officially. Most of them have been returned to active service.”

“So, sir, we must always stand clear, even in hot pursuit?”

“Unfailingly. I will accept no excuse from a captain who breaches Dutch neutrality. The only reason for so doing is because your ship is sinking; if that is the case, you cannot come back. If you do come back, by definition, you must be guilty.”

Griffin thought that was excessively hard.

“It is. Intentionally so. Now then, have you further queries about your orders?”

Simon would have been surprised if he had after so uncompromising a question.

“Excellent. Now, what of your three captains? Are you happy with them? Are the ships in good order? What are their needs?”

Griffin had his papers with him. He had inspected all three, and his own Lark, naturally, had statements of condition for them.

“All four vessels recently from the yard, sir. A high angle gun added to each, quite why, I do not know.”

“German seaplanes, Mr Griffin. Not a commonplace still, far less rare than they were. We shot one down on Lancelot last year, using the Gunner’s machine guns, part of his unofficial stock. They are a nuisance at the moment. It is possible that they could become a menace. We hear of plans for aeroplanes to carry a ton of bombs. Was that to be the case, they could become a dangerous weapon with the capability to close the Channel to us.”

Griffin was not pleased at such a prospect. He was much of the opinion that it was the job of the Flying Corps or Naval Air Service to put down such menaces.

“No doubt they will do all they can, Griffin. In their absence, we must protect ourselves. What have they given you?”

Whatever the yards could scrape together was the answer.

“Two three inchers, sir. One two pounder-pompom. One French, Hotchkiss abomination, in millimetres, of all things! A thirty-seven! It uses strips of shells, eight at a time, which it fires ‘semi-automatically’, the Gunner tells me!”

“Yes. Highly effective. Can also be fired with the main armament, low angle. I wonder if a better means of loading might be found – the strips slow the gun’s rate of fire. That apart, it is the most useful of close-range weapons. The pompom we know well enough. The problem there is the canvas belts, as you will have noticed. A useful gun in the hands of a good Gunner. The three inchers are unsuitable to destroyers, should not be put aboard us. I shall send a formal complaint to the Commodore – the yards have been asked not to put them aboard small ships. They will no doubt reply that they had nothing else to hand. If we ever see a Zeppelin, they might come in handy. Not otherwise. I hear, by the way, that they are proposing to build monitors with a pair of high angle six inch guns to accompany the Grand Fleet and provide protection against Zeppelins – drive them off if they are on reconnaissance duty.”

Griffin had little doubt that they would be a fine ship, just what was needed. Their Lordships tended to be well aware of what was best, what was ideal for the Navy.

“That brings us back to this Hotchkiss, sir. Utterly out of place, a French gun on a British ship!”

“Some Hotchkisses are now being made at Coventry, I am told, Griffin. Good enough for me. I had rather see them than three inch twelve pounders aboard our boats. What of your captains?”

“All three green, sir. New to command but years in destroyers. I suspect they will do, sir, once I have curbed their over-enthusiasm. Too much inclined to hare off after anything in sight. Need to be brought up to the bit!”

“Possibly, Griffin. Destroyers must retain a degree of initiative, however. Don’t tie them too tight to your apron strings. At the same time, make it very clear that orders are not up for discussion! Difficult to hold a balance. You have the experience to do just that.”

“Thank you, sir. You mentioned the possibility that we might be sent on other duties than the unending patrols in the North Sea?”

Simon recalled he had done so. It seemed that his every word would be remembered, might possibly be used against him.

“Oh, yes. Only an offchance. If the Grand Fleet is brought to an action in the southern reaches of the North Sea – off the Danish coast, perhaps – we will be called out to sweep to the south. The expectation is that they will come to battle further to the north. The High Seas Fleet will, if it comes out, be trying to break out into the Atlantic and so will be found off Norway, most likely.”

“Then let us hope for a battle to the south, sir. A chance for us to be part of the second Trafalgar!”

“We must all hope for that, Griffin. It is worth noting that so far in this war the naval balance has tilted to the German side – better gunnery than ours, particularly. If they bring the Grand Fleet to battle at fifteen thousand yards, or more, then the results may be unhappy for us.”

“Admiral Jellicoe must have his plans, sir. The aim must be to close to three thousand yards at most before firing broadsides. Ridiculous to so much as consider action at seven or eight miles distant! It is necessary to be close to take the enemy’s surrender – how can one board and bring home a battleship if one is not within range of it?”

“Nelson is dead, Griffin! The old days of taking by boarding died with him. The sole aim now is to sink the enemy while taking minimal losses ourselves. Their Lordships much want us to board German destroyers – they have even issued cutlasses for the purpose! You will not indulge in such foolishness except you collide with the enemy in the dark of night. I most certainly do not expect to see cutlasses in evidence when I inspect your ships – they should be locked away in a dark corner of the magazine where none of the hands can trip over them.”

“Boarding is our oldest tradition, sir. It has made the Navy all that it is!”

“Possibly so, Griffin. Times have changed. We must change with them. We fight a twenty-five knot war now. Nelson crawled into battle at walking pace. We do not. We are creating a new Navy in the boats. You must be part of it.”

“I am afraid I cannot agree, sir. With respect, sir, you have little experience of the more important aspects of naval life – when you have another ten years in, you will come to appreciate that the old ways are best – they have developed over centuries, sir, they must be right! For the while, sir, I am sure I can guide you into a correct way of doing things.”

Griffin returned to his ship happily convinced he had shown his young master the correct path. He ordered the crew to gunnery exercise, agreeing that to be necessary.

“Maximum rate of fire over open sights, Gunner. Assume a range of two cables and shortening. The important thing is to chieve the highest possible rate of fire. No need to worry about aim. Rifles and revolvers to every gun and to the torpedomen, ready to board.”

The Gunner, commissioned after twenty years in, was heartily in favour. Broadsides at arm’s length was exactly how he wished to fight the ship.

Simon paid a call on Tyrwhitt to discuss readiness and orders.

“A first shakedown patrol, sir, and then ready for trade, with one exception. I find I cannot work with Griffin. He believes in fixed patrol lines on an unvarying routine. If we should be ambushed, well and good! That will give us the opportunity to close the range and take the enemy by boarding. I do not believe he has considered the torpedo or the possibility that faster and better-armed German ships would simply hold off and batter. He will not enter into the spirit of my orders, being convinced that once I have a few more years in, I shall learn that the old ways are best. He is not suitable for service in destroyers, sir.”

“So be it, Sturton. I shall have the devil’s own job with the clerks at the Admiralty, trying to explain to them that all small ships are not identical. A man who has done well minesweeping at four knots is not necessarily to excel at nearly thirty knots in a destroyer. The ships may be much of a size; the demands on the captain are very different. The decision is mine, however. Griffin will be relieved of duty as of this day. Discovering his replacement will take a little longer, should be able to lay hands on a body inside two days. Luckily, the clerks who are in charge of making new appointments live in different offices to those responsible for dealing with unsuitable officers who have been relieved from duty in their ships for reasons other than disciplinary.”

It seemed peculiar. Simon’s slight knowledge of the Admiralty suggested it was not surprising; it was a strange place.

“Oh, while I think of it, Sturton, I was in Town over the weekend, met up with your old shipmate Baker. The VC, you know?”

“In company with his slightly eccentric lady, sir?”

“Elkthorn’s daughter? Yes, they make a fine couple, happy with each other. A pleasure to see. He has made brigadier, has been given three battalions of the New Army to take out in May.”

“Good for him! You know, sir, we lost a good man there. Makes me wonder sometimes if we in the Navy go about things the right way all the time. Never known a mid to be beaten as frequently as Baker was, or to seem so useless – yet we can see his achievements and must admire them, since he left the Navy.”

Tyrwhitt wondered if that was not going too far. Perhaps the young man had been unsuited to the sea, was of a different genius.

“Can’t deny his ability, Sturton. Pleasant chap to talk to, as well. Young Adams’ name came up as well – engaged to a daughter of the Duke of Blair. Don’t know how he blotted his copybook but he is navigator on Black Prince now and has made his way back into Their Lordship’s graces, for the duration. He will have to send his papers in when the war ends, of course, but there will be no disgrace.”

“Glad to hear that, sir. A good shipmate, although determined to rise in the world in the old way. I had thought he would have made post captain by the end of the war and rear five years later, all by standing at Jellicoe’s shoulder. I do wonder just what he did – so wholly out of character!”

“We shall never know, officially. You know what the Navy is like, Sturton – somebody will talk, one pal to another, and the word will eventually spread. Not to worry. Griffin for now. Call him across to Naiad, inform him that you cannot work with his attitude, you do not consider him suited for service in destroyers, send him directly to me. Unpleasant interview for you – something that you need to do. Good experience. When you break a man, always do it face to face – makes you a better officer. You have things to learn if you are to rise further in the world, Sturton. You will need three years at least in Naiad, then, if this damned war is over, it will make sense for you to be appointed to a flagship for two years before coming out as a post captain with a new cruiser or one of these aircraft carriers they are talking about – might be good for your future, that. Should see you as vice inside twenty years, one of the youngest ever.”

Simon left, wondering just why Tyrwhitt had been so open in his plans for him. As well, what was the gain for the Commodore?

He sat in his cabin, waiting for Griffin, putting the pieces together. The viscountcy would make him a valuable follower for Tyrwhitt, useful if he had ambitions to become First Sea Lord. Additionally, he had shown well, it might be that Tyrwhitt thought he would be good for the Navy.

He heard the pipes as Griffin came aboard, rehearsed his words – short and simple.

He kept proceedings formal, did not offer drinks of any sort.

“Sit down, Griffin. I have informed the Commodore that I cannot work with you. I do not believe that you are suited for destroyers. You are an able officer with an excellent record and the Commodore will try to find you a post suitable for your talents, on a larger ship, if possible, if not, perhaps at a training establishment for minesweeping, if such exists. You are to report to the Commodore immediately, without returning to Lark. Your servant can pack your cabin for you; I will send the order. Thank you. You may go.”

Griffin stood, found his cap, saluted and left, not a word said.

Strachan presided over the honours as Griffin left the ship, raised an eyebrow to Simon.

“Gone. Too rigid for the boats, Mr Strachan. We did not see eye to eye. Are you satisfied with the arrangements we have for the depth bombs? I am still not entirely certain of those rails over the stern quarter…”

Lieutenant Commander Faulds appeared next day, late and tired from a tedious journey from Scapa Flow.

“Escaped, sir! There since August ’14 and fast reaching the end of my tether! Glad to join the Harwich Patrol, sir.”

Faulds had been in command of destroyers since mid ’13, was deeply skilled in their handling and settled in instantly to the habits Simon demanded.

The flotilla sailed into bad weather which held unbroken for a month, half a gale the least as they learned to work together. It was difficult, in many ways ideal – if they could operate efficiently in rough seas and poor visibility, they could meet almost any other problems that would come their way.

Mid-April saw them back to the yard for three weeks to make good storm damage and pick up the latest in modifications dreamed up by the Admiralty’s boffins.

“Leave for all possible bodies, Sturton. Four weeks for you, commencing tomorrow. You may telephone your lady!”

It would seem that all was planned at the Parretts, waiting only for the word. He was to arrive next day and would be told of all he was to do. For the while, he must not worry himself – they had been in contact with his uncle and all was arranged.

A week and he was standing in the parish church, full dress, Strachan at his side, First Lieutenant acting as best man as was only right in the absence of any personal friends in the country. A commendably brief ceremony, the vicar having a fine idea of what weddings were about, and then to a surprisingly large reception.

His Uncle Perceval was present as was a banker Uncle Isaacs, Jewishness set aside for the day. Lieutenant Higgins was prominent in the congregation, a well-preserved, handsome female in her forties next to him; he was to meet the formidable mater, it seemed. He spotted Brigadier Baker as well, to his pleasure, his lady at his side, wedded three weeks, he knew, while he was at sea. The remainder of the guests were unknown – a great mass of introductions to come, inevitable at a wedding.

The bride appeared and he forgot all else, standing beside her and playing his part, giving his responses in a firm voice, as was correct.

The reception was held at the Hall, long and lush, ignoring the war other than for the absence of young men and the numbers of those present who wore black bands.

His uncles gave speeches and produced suitably magnificent gifts, sparkling and golden, and joined in the toasting and feasting that followed, wartime austerity nowhere to be seen.

An orchestra made itself known and dancing commenced and the newly weds circulated.

“Alice, I must make you known to Brigadier Baker – known to me for years at Dartmouth and for a long cruise on St Vincent dreadnought before the war. He found the Navy not to be his cup of tea and proceeded to show that he should always have been a soldier!”

Richard introduced his wife.

“We had only a very quiet affair, Sturton, due to Primrose losing two cousins in the month beforehand, the family in mourning. They were both Flying Corps. Never met them, myself.”

“You have a brigade of New Army, do you not, Baker?”

“Taking them out in May. What of you, Sturton? Three stripes up now and a collection on your chest!”

Simon announced his new status, a light cruiser and a flotilla as well.

“Post Captain within a couple of years at this rate, old fellow. Unheard of before the war, for either of us.”

Their ladies agreed they were outstanding gentlemen, wondered how they would do when the war ended.

The men caught each other’s eye and shook their heads simultaneously, Primrose noticing and wondering aloud why.

“An Army of one hundred thousand, even of our best, is not going to bring the war to an end, my love. Germany has at least two millions of men at and behind the Trenches. We may – we must – make a massive breach and bring the trench war to an end, but there will be a long slow push thereafter. How would you say at sea, Sturton?”

“We are holding our own and tightening the blockade. Germany is importing nothing by sea. A slow process. The Channel is fairly much secure. The submarines are playing merry hell in the Atlantic and things are getting worse there. From the little I pick up, I would say there is a chance we will not be able to feed the country next year.”

“Two more years, Richard?”

“If we break the German will to fight, only one. I have my doubts about that.”

It was hard to maintain the smiles demanded of the day. Alice, who had remained silent, commented once they had moved on that she had never seen a VC before; the Brigadier seemed a pleasant man despite his eminence.

“Very much so. I like his wife – though not as much as my own!”

She laughed and held his arm the tighter.

“She seems far more clever than me, Simon.”

“I expect she may be. Very blue, in the old term. She seems happy.”

“How could she not be? She is obviously in love with him and he is everything one could ask for in a soldier. I prefer seamen!”

“Then let me introduce you to Lieutenant Higgins. I have told you of him.”

“Is that a warning, Simon?”

Higgins was at his best in society, had been trained for years, Simon suspected. He introduced his mother, very correctly.

“A pleasure, Mrs Higgins.”

“Entirely mine, Commander, and Mrs Commander! I have wished to meet you ever since you first showed yourself such a friend as well as captain to my good son!”

“Mr Higgins has the makings of a fine officer, ma’am.”

Alice smiled and said nothing, thinking that the young man had two arms and two legs and a head, all the makings any officer could wish for.

“To be decorated twice at your heels and promoted quickly to lieutenant, Commander, is all that his mother, any mother, might wish for. I am sure we shall see much of each other in Town when this war is finally over, sir.”

They smiled and passed onto the next set waiting for them, came eventually to a lieutenant commander leaning heavily on a walking stick as he stood to greet them.

“Well done, young Sturton! And congratulations to you, ma’am!”

“Captain Smallwood! You are looking better than I had ever hoped for, sir.”

“Not ‘sir’ – you outrank me now, Sturton. Back on my feet, more or less. I shall be working with the Commodore at Harwich from next month. I do not doubt I shall see more of you then.”

A minute or two and then to the Commodore in person, able just to find time for the wedding of his protégé and delighted to make Alice’s acquaintance.

“Was that Brigadier Baker, the VC, I saw you with just now, Sturton?”

Simon explained the circumstance and caught Richard’s eye, made, left the distinguished pair in conversation.

“How many more, Alice?”

“Almost completed the round, Simon. Your Uncle Isaacs remains, together with his lady. I shall speak to them then retire to change.”

The good wishes of the clan were offered and gratefully accepted.

“If you should be in London in the next week or two, your Grandfather wishes to have a word, Simon. I believe he is planning! He sends his congratulations for your new ship, by the way.”

Simon wondered just how much influence the old man had brought to bear.

A week of honeymoon, the Navy forgotten, the couple happy in each other although Alice was hesitant in joining in their activity of a night – she had been sheltered and was a quiet girl, Simon told himself. They spent a few days at the Perceval manor in Kent, finding the house to be relatively new, large and not especially interesting and the park ploughed and down to wheat for the duration of the war.

“We can restore the paddocks when it is all over. The stables buildings are still there and there will be a place for ponies.”

The reference to children, veiled though it was, was unwelcome to Alice. She was not at all sure that she looked forward to pregnancy, inevitable though it might be. Not to worry! She welcomed her husband’s advances, as her mother had told her she must, and tried to show enthusiastic though she was not entirely certain how…

A week in London was more entertaining to her – she was a country girl, hardly knew Town and wished to make up for that lack. She shopped, despite being told that the stores were empty, and bought a wardrobe appropriate for a married lady and much enjoyed that part of her new existence.

Simon was taken to meet various lesser political figures, men whose faces rarely appeared in the newspapers but who played a significant role behind the scenes. They were the kingmakers, he was told, the gentlemen whose yea or nay determined just who should rise, or fall, at Westminster.

His Uncle Perceval was open in his explanations, accepting that as a Naval officer Simon would have little idea of how things actually worked.

“We are going to place you in the Conservative interest, Simon. Your Grandfather Isaacs agrees that they are the coming party. The Liberals head the government now but will inevitably find themselves taking the blame for the war and falling into opposition within a few years. Doesn’t matter a great deal, in fact, but it will be as well for you to be a member of a government. You have to remember that the Conservatives fall naturally into two sets, one of politicians, the other of natural backbenchers – youths of monied parents and the right schools and almost no ability who have to be found something to do. The braying, foxhunting mass can be ignored; they exist to lounge on the benches and troop through the lobbies at order and keep their mouths shut otherwise. You are to be one of the politically awake Tories, which is why we are making the introductions now, well before you can actually take a seat.”

It seemed rather ruthless to Simon. He wondered what part democracy played.

“A lot and almost nothing, simultaneously. You must win general elections. Having done so, you can ignore the masses for the next three or four years, provided all seems to go well. Power still resides in Westminster and Whitehall, provided it is exercised discreetly. This new Labour Party may change a little in the way things work. Not too much – it will become part of us if it grows important. You have the advantage that you are my heir. You will inherit a seat in the Lords sooner or later. It means that you can never become Prime Minister – that now seems clear – but it also gives you a vast deal of influence for the whole of your life, if you wish to use it.”

He began slowly to realise that the gentlemen he met in obscure offices and of an evening at dinner were to an extent forced to entertain him. He would be part of the background, at minimum, for the next half century, assuming he survived the war, and could not be fobbed off to lounge with the ignorant idlers of the backbenches. Like it or not, he was there and was a link to the City and all of its financial power; he was to be the face and voice of the Isaacs clan, acceptable publicly because he was Gentile not Jew. That also made him valuable to the clan – a link that they had previously lacked.

The sole question was whether he would choose obvious eminence, a place in government as a minister, or a less visible role as an advisor, a voice of wisdom to be consulted before precipitate action might be taken. Was he in fact to be the Admiral or the senior flag captain, the man who actually read the words from the Admiralty and made clear what the aims of any action must be?

The Admiral posed for the photographers these days, while the flag captain reported to Their Lordships, commonly enjoyed a greater degree of true responsibility.

He returned to Harwich and to the house on the outskirts they had rented where Alice would create a home for him to return to when possible.

Tyrwhitt greeted him and sent him off to sea.

“Increasing activity around Heligoland and the islands there, Sturton. All of our patrols are to pay particular attention to the north of our area. The Dover Patrol is being beefed up from Portsmouth and Plymouth temporarily and is to take over some of our work on the Belgian coast for a few weeks. You are to see what may be seen and keep an eye out for minelayers especially.”

“Why, sir? A peculiar place to lay fields, I would have thought. Not much chance of our venturing towards the Friesian Islands.”

“Word is – from those people who claim to know such things – that the latest plan is for the High Seas Fleet to sail and make a demonstration of their presence in the North Sea and then retire, drawing the Grand Fleet out from Scapa Flow and Queensferry and bringing them onto the new-laid minefields. As they pull away, possibly towing some of our battleships, certainly in some disorder, they will cross a line of submarines. Assuming the submarines to achieve some success, flotillas of destroyers in night actions to follow.”

It was a recipe for disaster.

“We could lose a dozen battleships in the space of a day and a night, and never bring the High Seas Fleet to action, sir.”

“We could. Jellicoe, I am told, believes it to be a strong possibility. Beatty does not. Beatty believes his battlecruisers are fast enough to avoid submarines and destroyers alike. Provided the minefields are spotted, and can be avoided, then he can get on the heels of the High Seas Fleet with his big guns and turn the tables.”

“That is crazy, sir! Battlecruisers are almost unarmoured. They are to chase cruisers and scout for the fleet. They have no place in the line of battle and must never come in range of battleships.”

“I know that, Sturton. So do you. Beatty wants to win the battle and to Hell with any nautical sense! Glory first and foremost, and the damned newspapers support him and pressure the government to give him free rein! You must do what you can the thwart the Germans and Beatty alike, Sturton!”

Chapter Fourteen

“A round of golf in the morning, Adams?”

The nine-hole golf course was one of the few relaxations available to officers at Scapa Flow. It was not elegant and the sheep provided a mobile hazard but it was better than hour after hour sat in the wardroom talking to the same people about the same things, day after day after day. Christopher was happy to accept.

“Getting up a boxing tournament again, they tell me, Proctor.”

Boxing – the Manly Art – was one of the few sports available to officers and men alike. Proctor had fought as a middleweight at Dartmouth, showing well there.

“Not for me this time, Adams! That damned stoker, Ferguson, has been posted up to Iron Duke – being champion he has a berth on the flagship! He will be competing and he is far better than me. I have met him twice in this last five years and been well thumped each time. A third lesson is not necessary. They say he will turn professional after the war. I shall be happy to watch his fights!”

Christopher laughed. Boxing had never appealed to him; he did not consider himself classically handsome but had no wish to see his nose rearranged by a skilful fist.

“Your lady would not approve of you entering the ring, I must imagine, Adams. Just a month until you wed, is it not?”

“End of June, Proctor. You have received your invitation, have you not?”

“I have, dear boy, but I can never remember dates. I shall certainly be present, the Kaiser permitting.”

“I doubt it will happen this year, Proctor. The Big Smash, that is. I don’t think the High Seas Fleet will stir out of its comfortable moorings this summer. They must be content to sit in a harbour with a railway line direct to the fleshpots of Berlin and with hotels and clubs and restaurants to hand onshore, laughing as they think of us stuck up here in the wilds, in the middle of nowhere. Seems to me they are winning hands down so far, this war!”

“Won’t be when they come out, Adams. Eventually they must fall under our guns and that will be an end to it.”

Proctor was a turret officer, in charge of one of Black Prince’s main battery guns and convinced that he would fire the shell that would destroy a German battlecruiser when the great meeting of the fleets eventuated.

“Armour-piercing into the magazine at three thousand yards, dear boy! An end to all their troubling.”

Quite how Black Prince was to come so close was left out of his calculations, it seemed.

“At night, dear boy! Just how the Captain has it planned!”

Christopher made no response, excusing himself to go to his chartroom, checking on the last instructions for course on leaving harbour.

“Changes every week, Proctor. The Cruiser Division seems to be put to a new position relative to the battleships every time Jellicoe wants something to do with a couple of hours!”

A few minutes working on courses and procedures for leaving Scapa in various states of wind and tide and Christopher sat back, wandered up to the bridge to get some fresh air – something readily available at Scapa – and to take a glance at the great anchorage. There was always some sort of movement, destroyer flotillas going out on exercise and patrol, battleships leaving the fleet to the dockyards or rejoining, storeships and leave boats coming up from the railhead on the mainland.

“Battleships have been put onto four hours for steam, Adams.”

The Captain’s voice from behind him.

“Good morning, sir. Anything for us?”

“The commodore is active. Cruiser division is about to receive orders, I would say, judging by the activity on her bridge.”

Christopher looked across at Defence, two cables distant from Warrior and Duke of Edinburgh and Black Prince, the four forming the First Cruiser Squadron under Captain Venn Ellis.

The Yeoman of the Signals had the acknowledgement flag bent onto the lanyards, waiting for the signal.

“For First Cruiser Division, sir. Go to two hours readiness for steam, sir. Executive, sir.”

“Acknowledge.”

The order was passed down to the engineroom and within minutes the ship was vibrating as all of its boilers were lit up and the engines were turned over, given their final checks.

“Engineroom reports ready in one hundred minutes, sir.”

Christopher wondered how that had been achieved. They had been on enhanced readiness previously, on eight hours notice; to turn that to less than two hours was an achievement, suggesting that the Chief had been cheating, had had all of his boilers lit and ready.

“Received a signal in the night, Adams.”

There was a chuckle in the captain’s voice, not a common event, Captain Gilpin-Brown not being the most light-hearted of men.

“Warning of wireless activity over on the Jade and Kiel Canal, a likelihood that some or all of the High Seas Fleet was moving. Probably going out on gunnery exercises in the Baltic. Normal enough. I would not be surprised if the engineroom had heard and taken appropriate action.”

Coal-fired boilers needed hours to come up to temperature, just how many depending on the foresightedness of the engineers.

“Clouds of black smoke all over the Flow, sir. The battle fleet is in readiness as well, it would seem.”

A few minutes and a message came up from the wireless cabin two decks below.

“Battlecruisers are out. Beatty has all of his command under steam.”

The officers on the bridge exchanged glances – it might be for real, the big battle finally on the horizon.

“Call all hands, Commander.”

Five minutes of apparent chaos, men running to their stations, some still chewing on a sandwich, most grinning, a few shouting their delight.

“Close watertight doors, sir?”

“Not yet. Allow the men access to the heads. Get an issue of cocoa to all stations.”

It might be the last hot drink available for a day or more if they remained closed up overnight. Most of the men would have water bottles with them; the older, experienced hands would have tucked a can of bully beef or a packet of biscuit away as well. All would be making use of the heads, doing their best to empty their bowels before being locked away in tight enclosed metal boxes for the duration of the battle. A ship could be a smelly place after a prolonged period of action stations.

The bridge was crowded with the extra officers, additional to the ordinary watchkeepers, all waiting for something to happen before they went to their stations at the guns.

Hours passed, no signals coming from Iron Duke, the flagship.

“Waiting for the battlecruisers to make contact. Hoping that Beatty will actually tell Jellicoe what is going on. He made a cock of Dogger Bank for not using the wireless, you know.”

The Battle of Dogger Bank was generally recognised by the Navy as a failure, Beatty’s ships having sunk one heavy cruiser and allowed a flotilla of battlecruisers to escape almost unharmed, due, it was thought, to Beatty’s inability to formulate and clearly convey the necessary orders to his captains. He had relied on flag signals for all of his commands. The newspapers had all shouted success and victory, Beatty being a favourite of theirs and well loved by Royalty. He had retained his command and was believed to be the heir-in-waiting, successor to Jellicoe when his time came.

The fleet finally sailed, going out slowly in order, so many big ships having to manoeuvre carefully in the confined channels leading out of the anchorage. The First Cruiser Division tucked itself into its place, on the northern, port flank of the battleship divisions.

“Doing no good at all here! Supposed to be out scouting, taking a lead. Venn Ellis won’t be happy, that’s for sure.”

The Commander’s words were heard by all, agreed with wholeheartedly. The armoured cruisers could do nothing where they were placed.

“Orders for twenty knots, sir.”

Christopher retired to his charts, laying out the mean course, allowing for zigzagging to put off submarines.

“Making for the gap in the minefields southwest of the Friesian Islands, close to Heligoland, sir.”

They waited, the wireless operators alert for any message from the battlecruisers.

“Nothing from Beatty. No contact, one presumes.”

Captain Gilpin-Brown sounded dispirited – another false alarm.

The fleet continued south, twenty-four dreadnoughts in six columns of four accompanied by three battlecruisers, three cruiser divisions and a mass of destroyers, the most powerful fleet ever mustered on Earth. They were effectively blind, hoping the High Seas Fleet was out and knowing nothing, for lack of signals coming through from Beatty’s battlecruisers.

“Our pendant, sir!”

The Yeoman yelled that there were orders for the First Cruiser Division.

“To join battlecruisers, sir, making a sweep east and south towards the Danish coast. Executive, sir.”

Black Prince joined Defence and Warrior and the Duke of Edinburgh, coming into line abreast, separated for scouting, Black Prince to the far end of the line, to the northeast, the battlecruisers to the south. They increased to twenty-three knots, pulling away from the Grand Fleet, wondering how long the speed, their maximum, would be demanded of them.

“Poor visibility, Navigator! Mist and haze in patches, clear elsewhere. Can see twenty thousand yards in places, one thousand in others.”

“I was told it was the same at Heligoland Bight in ’14, sir. A bit later in the year, admittedly, but the visibility impossible there.”

It was much the same stretch of sea.

Hours passed in the long northern midsummer day, no more than four hours of darkness at this latitude. Black Prince gradually fell behind, the speed too great for her to maintain hour after hour.

A runner came up from the wireless cabin, passed a written message to the captain.

“Beatty is in contact with Hipper’s battlecruisers. Has him outnumbered. Should wipe him out as soon as the battleships come up.”

Hipper was known to have five battlecruisers to Beatty’s six. In addition, Beatty had been joined by four fast superdreadnoughts of the Queen Elizabeth class, all with fifteen inch guns. Provided Beatty had kept his flotillas together, it should have been a massacre.

Nothing for long minutes, the wireless silent again. The same runner came, literally running, thrusting the message form forward to the nearest officer.

“Indefatigable and Queen Mary gone, sir. All hands. Blown up.”

There was dead silence on the bridge, broken after a while by the captain’s voice.

“Led them into a minefield, perhaps? A submarine trap?”

The Fleet had been warned of both possibilities; they were known to be part of German planning.

Half an hour of speculation, tinged with horror – the Germans were the underdog, their fleet massively weaker. It could not happen that way.

The voicepipe gave a whistle.

“Wireless cabin, sir. From Admiral Beatty. High Seas Fleet to southwest. Running before them. Admiral Jellicoe has signalled the Admiralty that a general fleet action is imminent.”

That was better. Beatty was bringing the High Seas Fleet into the trap, would lead them into the massive broadsides of twenty-four dreadnoughts in line across their ‘T’. No fleet could survive that onslaught.

“All officers to their stations, gentlemen.”

Black Prince could have no part to play in the battle, was far too small, would be brushed aside in seconds. The Cruiser Division would play its part in discovering fleeing battleships, possibly mopping up the most damaged, bringing the Grand Fleet to the location when necessary.

“Wireless cabin reports interference with signals, sir. Jamming, probably, by the Hun.”

An hour and they heard the guns well to their southwest, out of sight, battle joined.

“From Commodore, sir. Make due south.”

The flag signal was brief and contained no detail.

Black Prince conformed, slowly losing contact with the rest of the Division.

Mid evening saw a flurry of action to their southwest, their sole information coming from the spotting top, the Gunner using his glasses.

“Battlecruisers firing, sir. Defence and Warrior joining, sir.”

The Yeoman called the flag signal to hold course from Defence.

A delay, a noisy, intense action out of sight on their starboard bow, a signal from Duke of Edinburgh, the Morse Code just decipherable.

“Defence and Warrior gone, sir. One of the battlecruisers blown up. Continue south. Discover location High Seas Fleet.”

The great battle had turned into disaster, or so it seemed. They could only imagine that somehow Jellicoe had failed to make contact with the High Seas Fleet, that Beatty had not led them into the trap.

“Wireless cabin. Continue to attempt contact with Fleet.”

The message came back that the jamming was stronger than ever. If ships of the High Seas Fleet were responsible, they were coming closer.

Night fell, the last they knew a broken signal from Duke of Edinburgh that there was destroyer action to the southwest at the far limit of visibility. They were to maintain course and speed until reaching Danish waters when they should head towards the edge of the known minefields and then reverse course towards the Skagerrak in case the High Seas Fleet had passed them in the darkness.

Captain Gilpin-Brown acknowledged his orders.

“Flailing about in the dark. Blindfolded boxing!”

A little before midnight Christopher estimated they had reached Danish waters.

“Course south southwest, sir.”

Black Prince turned to the heading given, reducing speed to twelve knots.

“Torpedo tubes turned out. Ready for immediate action.”

Christopher approved. Evidently Captain Gilpin-Brown had hopes of catching a big ship in the night, as they had discussed repeatedly.

The night was black, visibility effectively nil in the haze.

“Ship, sir! Across the bows!”

Immediate night action, as rehearsed time and again, the searchlights turned on, all guns that would bear ready.

“German, sir. Battleship.”

“Open fire!”

Two of the six inchers fired and scored immediate hits, the range less than a quarter of a mile. Christopher heard a torpedo tube fire. The nine point two inch main armament was slower in coming into action, had still not fired when the German ship responded with her secondary armament, too close to use her main guns, and four others astern and ahead of her fired their twelve inchers.

Shells landed aboard from stern to bows. Two of the funnels fell and there were massive fires amidships and to the stern. Black Prince lost power and steering in the same few seconds, fell off line, wallowing in the light swell.

The bridge was hit repeatedly. Christopher staggered from the chartroom, bleeding from three separate wounds, tried to make his way to the conn where the captain was lying, legs blown off, obviously dead. A final twelve inch shell exploded, destroying the upperworks, splinters ripping him to pieces. Seconds later the forward magazine blew and Black Prince fell onto her side and sank almost immediately, none of her crew surviving.

South in the Broad Fourteens, Simon had brought his flotilla to the edge of Dutch waters, running north at twenty-eight knots, responding to orders from Harwich to seek out light forces thought to have sailed north from Zeebrugge and nearby havens.

“Yeoman, all ships, report oil state.”

All responded with at least thirty hours at full speed, more than sufficient for their purposes.

Naiad had the most powerful wireless receiver, picked up Jellicoe’s signal to the Admiralty.

“All ships. C in C expects fleet action this day. Battle ensigns.”

The biggest ensigns they had, flying from both masts as was tradition.

“Splice the mainbrace, Number One.”

Another tradition, one that Simon was less in favour of. He had no choice. The hands must have their rum in anticipation of the day’s business.

“Bloody stuff, Mr Strachan! How are men to sit at rangefinders, making precise readings and calculations with their heads swimming?”

“Fighting spirit, sir! They will be right when the time comes.”

Simon thought that to be one of the more stupid responses he had ever heard. He accepted that it was typical of the Navy.

“From Lisle, sir, repeated Lark. ‘Smoke inshore. Four ships. More at distance’.”

“Make ‘Observe. Do not enter Dutch waters’.”

The flag signal was sent down the line, acknowledgement returned. Simon preferred not to use the wireless so close to Germany and its superior facilities. Intelligence insisted that the German codebreakers could listen in to all wireless traffic and send information to their own ships within minutes.

“Would have been useful to know what the ships were, sir.”

“Visibility is patchy, Number One. It’s possible that all they can pick up is four black clouds. Must be coal burners and probably large – old light cruisers or protected cruisers even. No reports of anything bigger down on the Belgian coast. No gain to harassing Lisle for more – they will send along everything they see without me on their backs.”

Nearly an hour passed before the next message that there were four large and at least three smaller vessels, course appeared to be northwards, possibly towards Heligoland. Speed of the ships was no more than twelve knots.

“Old coal burners, as we suspected, Mr Strachan. Might be merchant shipping, working the Dutch coast, possibly a protected convoy to Denmark or Sweden… There is an amount of neutral trade into the Baltic. Twelve knots is high for merchantmen, so unlikely.”

“Dutch navy, sir? Responding to news of battle by heading north to protect their waters against incursions by either side?”

That was likely; it would be a rational action to take.

“Yeoman, ‘flotilla to close on Lisle’.”

The ship heeled and led the way to form line a mile outside Dutch territorial waters.

Naiad was higher than Lisle, the gunnery officer could see farther with his telescope.

“Thick haze inshore, sir. Seven vessels, line astern. Two small to the fore. Four of large three- and four-funnel ships, one very large. Single small ship bringing up the rear, sir. Three escorts, perhaps.”

It was possible that a neutral convoy would be escorted by the Dutch navy, taken up to Danish waters and handed over there…

“Reduce speed to fourteen knots.”

The flotilla would reach international waters off the Friesian Islands ahead of the convoy, if that was what it was, but still well in sight.

There was a whistle from the wireless cabin voicepipe. Simon bent to hear what was said.

“Indefatigable and Queen Mary lost, sir.”

“Jesus!”

Presumably Beatty had met up with the whole High Seas Fleet and had been unable to disengage. As Simon remembered, Beatty had six battlecruisers while Hipper in a similar scouting role had only five. Add to that, Beatty had recently been backed up by the squadron of superdreadnoughts, fast and with fifteen inch guns. He could not have been defeated by Hipper’s battlecruisers, must have met up with something much greater.

He passed the word to the bridge, nodded to the Yeoman to officially inform the flotilla. The word would have been passed by hands semaphoring from the stern, it could not be kept quiet.

“Aeroplane, sir. Southeast, approaching.”

“Do not fire on the aeroplane.”

They watched, saw a seaplane with Dutch colours coming towards them. It circled, the observer waved and the plane pottered off towards the unknown ships, flew around them for a few minutes before returning and dipping low over Naiad.

“Message canister, sir!”

A running hand grabbed at the trailing ribbons, plucked the fist-sized canister out of the air, brought it to the bridge.

“Well done, Hardy. We would have lost that if you had not been so quick.”

Hardy ran back to his gun, pleased that the captain had recognised him, knew his name.

The Yeoman opened the container, as was only proper as it must contain a message, and passed a sheet of paper to Simon. He read the message aloud.

“Seven German warships, in breach of Dutch waters. Three patrol boats. One predreadnought, Braunschweig class. Three old cruisers. Good luck.”

The Dutch were neutral – that did not mean even-handed. German incursions into their waters had been creating increasing ill-feeling and cooperation with Britain on the sly.

“Blood for supper, gentlemen, provided they leave territorial waters. I wonder where they came from?”

Simon spent a few minutes composing a careful message to Harwich. He must keep Tyrwhitt informed, did not want prescriptive orders restricting his initiative. He leant to the voicepipe.

“Wireless cabin! Commodore, Harwich. Shadowing German squadron in Dutch waters – position whatever – course for Heligoland. At current speed, interception in night hours.”

Strachan ran down with a note of precise latitude and longitude, waited while the message was sent.

“Operator reports poor transmission quality, sir. There seems to be jamming of our frequencies, whatever they are. He cannot guarantee that Harwich will receive our message or that he will pick up any reply.”

“Log that, please, Mr Strachan.”

He had done his duty. It was almost as good as Nelson’s blind eye.

The attack on the four big ships must be by torpedo. The patrol craft were too small, must be taken by the guns, Naiad’s six inch being the most sensible.

Simon briefly discussed his plan and the signal he would send with Strachan. His second in command must know what was going on in case of a shell hitting the bridge.

“Captain Faulds and half-flotilla to be ready for torpedo attack on big ships. Naiad with Loring to pair of patrol boats ahead. Laker and Launceston to sink patrol boat astern and close with torpedoes at their discretion.”

Strachan agreed, suggested he should add the words ‘close-range’ to Captain Fauld’s orders.

“Oh! Do you feel that to be necessary? I had not noticed.”

It was difficult to ask in public whether Strachan thought the captain was shy.

“Inclined to be a thinking man, sir. One who might calculate the odds rather than go in hell for leather.”

“That will never do! Not in the boats, Mr Strachan.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“I really think we must grant him the opportunity to be a hero, you know. Instead of ‘close-range’ put ‘at night range of no more than three cables’.”

“That should do the job, sir. His whole bridge will read that signal.”

They picked up occasional messages through the late afternoon and evening. There was a battle, a hundred and more miles to their north. It was confused, visibility was poor, the High Seas Fleet had outmanoeuvred Jellicoe, turning away when he had looked to cross their T. All they could gather was of a long range action in which German gunnery was showing far better. There was a massive and confused destroyer action ongoing, torpedoes everywhere, almost none of them hitting. The submarine trap that had been feared had not eventuated. A third battlecruiser had been sunk, and two at least of armoured cruisers. There was remarkably little reported by way of German losses.

“As battles go, it’s all very tentative, it seems to me, sir.”

Strachan was trying to make sense of the clash.

“If the dreadnoughts of both sides had come together in a determined fashion, we would have heard of a dozen battleships sunk, at least. On both sides. Probably more German losses than British simply because we have the larger guns. The German ships have eleven and twelve inchers; we have twelve, thirteen point five, fourteen and fifteen inchers. Add to that, we outnumber them. The feeling I get, sir, is that Jellicoe is more concerned not to lose than he is to win.”

“He was never a destroyerman, Number One.”

That said it all.

They shadowed the German squadron while they came closer to international waters, observed them to be slowing.

“Making course for the Canal, sir. Intending to make the run by night. Waiting for dark.”

“I wonder what they were doing in the first instance?”

“Making a sweep southabout, sir, with the intention of mopping up damaged ships making their way home across the North Sea. Couldn’t do that once they had been spotted, so going home again. It’s a logical use for old ships, sir. They shouldn’t be present at the big battle but can do a useful job on the sidelines.”

“Well thought. I agree. Let’s see if we can put a stop to their antics. How soon until they leave Dutch waters?”

“Less than thirty minutes, sir. They must bear up to avoid the shallows and make a few miles west before turning to a direct course to Heligoland. Minefields all around the area which limit their possible track.”

“Make ready, Number One. Close watertight doors.”

A black night, haze thickening, impossible to see a cable off their bows.

“Assume no change in course, Number One. Continue at fourteen knots.”

It was a risk, inshore, close to minefields, in the presence of the enemy, blind.

Simon made a show of standing tall, unconcerned. He wondered what Alice was doing, wished he was at her side in the big bed at the Park in Kent – far warmer than the bridge at eleven in the evening. She had shown more responsive to his demands on the last few nights; far better there than here!

“Small ships, starboard bow. Coming towards. At speed.”

The lookouts yelled and the guns responded instantly, under orders to open fire at first sight of an enemy.

They watched for the torpedoes that must be coming, could see nothing.

“Starboard ten!”

Naiad turned hard, came bows to bows with the oncoming vessels.

A shellburst lit up the night, showed a pair of destroyers, patrol boats, the Germans called them, coming in fast, one falling off line, the six inch shell ripping into its bows.

“Port ten. Zigzag.”

Naiad began to swing hard port and starboard of the line. The guns tried to compensate.

A second hit and then the Hotchkiss and the four inch opening fire, able now to see the target.

“Action on the bow, sir. Distant two miles, perhaps.”

A five inch shell burst alongside, splinters whipping the length of the decks. One of the four inch guns fell silent.

“Action astern of the big ships, sir.”

There was heavy shellfire coming from four sources, four inchers returning from four very fast moving destroyers. Astern, Laker and Launceston had found the third boat, were engaging hard.

“No torpedo hits, sir.”

Fauld’s four boats disappeared and the four big ships ceased fire. One of Naiad’s targets turned turtle as they watched, the second limped off into the darkness. Firing stopped astern, where the pair had dealt with their target.

“Wireless, Faulds to close Naiad.”

“We are close to the minefields, sir. Turn to course two six five degrees, recommended, sir.”

“Make it so, Number One. Yeoman, light signal all to follow Naiad’s course.”

Simon left the precise wording to the Yeoman, knowing that it might take ten minutes to contact the nearer three boats, in which time the course would change.

Dawn produced a signal from Harwich to sweep across the North Sea to Newcastle, seeking damaged ships making their way home.

Faulds reported that he had made his torpedo attack at close range. Unfortunately, all torpedoes had missed, the night being black and sighting almost impossible. Simon made his acknowledgement – he could not argue.

The High Seas Fleet disappeared into the night, returning to harbour, to make only one tentative reappearance at sea in the rest of the war.

The Grand Fleet returned to Scapa and Queensferry, much shaken. Dockers at Queensferry booed the battlecruisers as they came in, obviously defeated.

“No victory for either side, sir.”

Simon stood in Tyrwhitt’s office, looking at the signals and newspaper headlines, trying to make sense of the battle.

“Lost three battlecruisers and three out of four of the First Cruiser Division. Light cruisers and destroyers besides. Looks as if the destroyers more than held their own – fighting half the day and all night and put down some light cruisers and destroyers, might have torpedoed a battlecruiser.”

“Must have been a hundred torpedoes fired, sir. Not much of a result for that expenditure.”

“No. First reports say that the Germans fired thirty-one torpedoes at the Grand Fleet. Missed with every one.”

“Worth trying to work out why, sir. What range did they fire at?”

“Three thousand yards, it looks like, Sturton.”

“Two cables makes better sense, sir. Firing at four hundred yards from a destroyer making thirty knots gives the battleship almost no time to take evasive action.”

“True, but…”

“Cannot be done in daylight, sir. The mass of six and four inch guns will sink any destroyer that comes within half a mile. Lucky to get closer than a full mile, in fact. And that is leaving out the enemy destroyers acting in defence. Torpedo attacks cannot be performed by fleet destroyers, not with any hope of success.”

The Admiralty came to the same conclusion. Construction of fleet submarines was accelerated, massive steam powered boats that could accompany the Grand Fleet to battle, submerging at the last minute and taking the attack to the opposition.

Simon returned to the Belgian coast, finding activity much reduced for weeks after the battle – destroyer actions were at a halt and submarines were taking to the Atlantic rather than attempting to enter the Channel.

Orders arrived, the flotilla to leave the North Sea and base itself at Londonderry in the north of Ireland.

“Submarine chasing, Sturton. Trying to protect the merchant marine. The Kaiser has given up on his surface navy and is building submarines by the score. The aim is to totally blockade our coast and prevent the food ships from coming in from Canada and the States. It won’t work because they will have to sink neutrals as well as our ships if they are to be effective. If they take into American ships, they will bring the States into the war. That will save our necks, I suspect!”

“Is it that bad at the Front, sir?”

“Bloody disaster, Sturton!”

Richard took his three battalions across to France towards the end of May, part of Braithwaite’s division of the New Army. He had managed a week of leave in Norfolk prior to embarkation, had relaxed in Primrose’s company, escaping from London and its gaiety, almost unchanged from the days of peace.

“Must have the Season, my love! Where we would be without it? A little more short of young men even than normal, however.”

“The absence of men is compensated for by the presence of staff officers, Prim. Hundreds of them in their beautiful uniforms and all decorated so heavily! Have you heard that the War Office has had to forbid the issue of ribbons to those who have not seen frontline service?”

She had not, was inclined to be disgusted that there had been a need for such an order.

“Yes, they have to content themselves with foreign medals now. The Belgians and Portuguese and Russians are in the habit of sending a hundred or so of gongs at a time for distribution to the worthy. None of them get further than Army or Corps Headquarters! I presume they have a raffle each time they arrive. I believe the Italians and the Greeks are being tapped up for a supply as well. Can’t have a good war without the ribbons to show for it!”

She snorted her disgust, took the opportunity to raise a question she had been keeping for a proper moment. Sat in a first class compartment of a slowly moving train on the Norfolk coast gave her ample time.

“That does bring the question, husband, of your own breast. There does seem to have been an addition or two to the display…”

He had to admit that was so.

“Give a dog a good name, Prim… You know how it is, once they give one a medal, they find the need to offer more, to fill up the vacant space, one might say.”

“One might say ‘balls’, Richard! What were you doing to collect a bar to the DSO? And that looks like a French decoration as well.”

“Belgian, actually, as the last action took place on Belgian soil, not keeping rigorously to the borders these days. They seemed to think the battalion did better than many in the last battle.”

“With you at its head, no doubt!”

“No other place I could be, Prim. It will be different as a brigadier. Must be. No choice. I have to stay to the rear where I can see what is happening and give the orders.”

She was slightly mollified.

“There is the matter of no fewer than three Mentions as well, recorded in the Gazette, Richard.”

“Ah, yes… Well, I did happen to be up at the front when we indulged in a little trench raiding.”

“That is an activity for subalterns, sir!”

“Well, yes, to an extent, one might say, it is. It seemed sensible to discover what the new conditions were like, in fact. The only way of finding out is to get out there and do it. Add to that, Prim…”

He hesitated, trying to find the words.

She remained silent, waiting for him.

“I am in a trap, my love. I have no choice. I made myself into a hero – and I didn’t mean to – and I have to play the part now. I am the great Brigadier Baker, to private soldiers and generals alike, and I must do all that is necessary to keep up the show. I have no alternative, Prim! They look up to me, in their thousands, and I must not disappoint them. Even my father – as hardboiled a man as you could find, normally – offers me overt, and real, respect. You have seen it in London, have you not?”

She had, only too often having to step in to prevent some hero-worshipping debutante from falling at his feet, or into his bed as more than one had made clear was possible. She thought he might not have noticed the females, knowing him to be utterly faithful to her.

“Spotty youths cheering when they see you in the street, Richard. An embarrassment indeed! Impossible to enter a theatre unnoticed or leave often without applause from the stage!”

“Exactly! I am the cynosure of all eyes – I have that right, do I not?”

He was always aware that she was far better read than him.

“You have, Richard. At least, it will not be so bad at Wells.”

She was wrong. He was recognised at the station and was cheered into the car waiting for them. The staff were lined up outside the house to welcome the master and mistress, as was not unusual; they made a far greater fuss over him than her, which was.

A few days of idleness, happy in each other’s company and then their minds turned to the war, invisible almost in their backwater.

“How long will you be away, Richard?”

“Months, of a certainty. I will be surprised to see leave this year. I may be called back to London to meetings on occasion. If you are in Town, we may get a night together.”

She would not leave London if that was the case.

“No. You must live your life as well, my love. If you happen to be in residence here, well, that will be bad luck, that’s all. You cannot spend all of your days sat by the telephone hoping I shall appear.”

“There are things I want to do here, I will admit, Richard. I will spend half of my time here at Wells, making our house.”

“For the rest? If the coming battle returns us to a war of movement, which we must hope will be so, then all may be finished by the middle of ’17. If the battle fails…”

His voice tailed off. He sat silent.

“If it fails, Richard?”

“Then we both may be grey-haired before it ends. It should not come to disaster. We have the finest, best-trained army this nation has ever known. The men are young lions.”

“And the generals?”

“Old donkeys.”

Copyright

Copyright © 2020 Andrew Wareham

KINDLE Edition

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Content

Andrew Wareham
The War to End All Wars
- Book Four -
THE DEATH OF HOPE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Copyright