Andrew Wareham

THE WAR TO END ALL WARS

- Book Three -

END TO ILLUSION

Chapter One

Christopher Adams stood silent on Connaught’s bridge. As Navigator he had few duties in action; being disgraced, his advice was not wanted. He watched as the light cruiser, Salford, made her run on the old battleship. He could not see the name on the Austrian ship’s stern but recognised her as one of the Habsburg class.

The Commander was watching the performance of the light cruiser through his glasses, professionally interested as well as making his report on a member of the squadron. He gave a running commentary, somewhat unnecessarily, the captain being on the bridge at his side with his own glasses.

“Four torpedoes running, sir. Launched at about five cables. Two and three running wild, sir, veering off track. Coming onto our bearing… off line now, curving back… turning again. Gyroscope must be malfunctioning, sir. One and four are running true, sir. Battleship is sounding alarm, sir. Steam siren, sir – audible in the town, one must imagine. Garrison alerted.”

“Open fire, main armament.”

The four nine point twos that would bear had been tracking their target and fired immediately. Their shells all hit home at a range of little more than a thousand yards.

Christopher noted the shell bursts, saying nothing still. One in the hull, well forward and above the waterline, possibly in the messdecks of the forecastle and, if so, likely to have caused massive casualties among the crew. The second was towards the bridge, again possibly effective in crippling the command of the ship. Third and fourth both struck home on the armour belt and did little damage; possibly splinters would have reached the secondary armament, the small guns having little protection. They were firing common shell, high explosive, not armour-piercing; he wondered why.

“Change targets! All guns.”

The order had been pre-arranged. The main armament turned onto the three lesser warships and the six inch and three pounders fired for the first time.

Turning his glasses across the anchorage Christopher identified two newer destroyers and a gunship of some sort. None had steam up and their lack of response suggested they had not even had a single gun crew at overnight readiness. The Commander saw the same.

“Damned poor, sir. Italy expected to enter the war any day now and yet they have spent the night asleep. No readiness at all!”

“Not as poor as our gunnery, Commander!”

Captain Archdale was severe, scowling at the waterspouts rising as much as a hundred yards away from their targets.

The two torpedoes hit and exploded, white water rising as high as the battleship’s masthead.

One was precisely central, penetrating the engineroom and probably opening up some of the boilers. The fourth fired hit towards the stern, beyond the armour belt and blowing a massive hole in the hull.

There was a sudden cloud of steam. A plume of smoke jetted high from one stack.

“Steam up on one furnace overnight, sir. Blown now. Engineroom finished, sir.”

The Commander said no more – all of the stokers and officers on duty would be dead, most unpleasantly, scalded by live steam.

“Sinking by the stern, sir. Rolling towards. On fire towards the fore, sir. Where are her magazines?”

Silence. None of the bridge party had looked up the information on their target.

Christopher ventured to speak.

“Towards the fore, sir. Engineroom and bunkers and boilers are mostly aft in this class.”

Captain Archdale reacted immediately.

“Ten of the port wheel!”

Connaught pulled away from the sinking ship. If the magazines blew then it would not be wise to be within half a mile of her.

The bridge party was openly jubilant.

“Going fast, sir.”

Captain Archdale scowled at the gleeful young lieutenant.

“At anchor and unprepared, Syston! No chance to hit back. Not a kill to glory in. Have you located the shore batteries?”

As if in response, a first shell fell into the water a cable distant.

“What was that?”

The waterspout was wrong for an explosive shell. There was no response from the young officers.

“Early armour-piercing, sir. Solid shot. Probably large bore. Cylindrical, sir and sometimes called bolts. Probably an old muzzle loader. Dating back to the 1860s, sir.”

“Thank you, Adams. Good to know that one officer on my bridge is professionally competent, has a broad knowledge beyond his specialisation!”

Captain Archdale bent to the speaking tubes, called to the Gunnery Officer sat up in his small tower.

“Guns, did you spot that battery?”

“Yes, sir. Eight guns, sir, placed near to the old castle on the hill and close to the town centre. I can see four other batteries, sir – men running towards them from what seems to be a barracks a good half mile distant. No sign that any of the batteries are manned, no more than the single gun that just fired, sir. The other batteries are all at the waterfront, sir, or on the low cliffs. All in the middle of housing and warehouses, sir.”

There would be civilian casualties which should be avoided under the Laws of War.

“Do not return fire, Guns. Can you see the coaling wharves?”

“Centrally placed, sir, close to the shipyard and the slum housing around it. Impossible to hit without causing casualties, sir. Any overs would certainly land in the terraces.”

Further bombardment must kill women and children.

“Cease fire.”

The Royal Navy fought a gentleman’s war, when possible and in European waters.

Captain Archdale stood from the voice pipes.

“Signal recall to Salford. Bring us on course for rendezvous with sloops, Navigator.”

“Five of starboard wheel!” Christopher waited while Connaught came round, steadied her on a course for the centre of the channel heading southeast.

“Forty minutes at twenty knots, sir.”

“Very good, Mr Adams.”

A lookout shouted down that the battleship had sunk.

“Only shore boats, sir. None of her own launched.”

“Totally unprepared, gentlemen. Satisfactory from our point of view. Let us hope many of her crew had overnight leave.”

The younger men seemed unconcerned – the tribulations of the Austrians were not their business, it seemed.

“Small ships all sunk, sir.”

The Commander was still examining the anchorage through his glasses.

“As well, sir, harbour gunboats tied up at a wharf, sir. Four of them, it seems, all sunk by Salford. A pair of tugs as well, at the naval berths and legitimate targets of war. No other naval vessels in sight, sir. Just the single shot fired, sir. Suggests one gun kept loaded with a duty crew.”

“And reloads down in the magazine, Commander! Very poor. We won’t find any other ports as ill defended as this.”

They shook their heads, deploring the inefficiency of the old Empire.

“Signal Salford. Congratulations on effective gunnery. Report on torpedoes. Overhaul reloads.”

The Yeoman of the Signals sent the message by flag, light signals working better at night and the two ships’ radio communication with each other inclined to be unreliable inshore under the shelter of the mountains. Flags were better, anyway – they were the way a seaman should choose. Flags had been good enough for Nelson.

“Guns to bridge.”

The Gunnery Officer reported within the minute, smiling and waiting for his commendation.

“Main battery was effective, Guns. All four hit the battleship and there was a high rate of hits on the two destroyers. The six inchers did less well, however.”

“First live firing in four months for the secondary guns, sir. The six inchers can only be fired in a near flat calm, sir, which means inshore normally. Can’t fire on friendly shores, sir. The three pounders are as nearly pointless as makes no difference, sir. They were accurate and rapid, sir, but did little damage.”

“Poor design, Guns. They should have been twelves at least. Supposed to be for defence against torpedo craft. As we have seen, hopeless for that purpose. Can you do more by way of practice for the six inch?”

“Their casemates are uninhabitable in any sea, sir. The crews cannot function, sir – washed out!”

“Then we must rely on the main guns only, it would seem. We have a pair of torpedo tubes, Guns. We may have to use them, it would seem. You saw Salford’s torpedoes?”

“Gyroscope failure, sir. There was a report from the Dover and Harwich Patrols last year, sir, that their torpedoes were commonly unreliable. The torpedoes have been withdrawn and their new model gyroscopes replaced by the older models. A new one is in design. Nothing has come out to us, sir. I could strip our tinfish down, sir, and attempt to maintain the gyroscopes. Very fiddly business, sir. The PO might have been on a course on them, sir. I will see if anything can be done. The rule is to leave gyroscopes for the dockyard, sir.”

“Two out of four malfunctioning… Best to leave them alone unless the Petty Officer has the specific knowledge to adjust them.”

The Gunnery Officer seemed quite relieved at that command.

“We have eighteen inch tubes, sir. I have only heard that the twenty-one inch torpedoes had failures.”

“In that case, Guns, definitely leave them alone. Why did you use common shell rather than armour-piercing?”

“Don’t really trust this new armour-piercing stuff, sir! Better stick to the tried and true, in my opinion, sir. Barely had ten years of experience with armour-piercing, sir.”

Christopher, like every other of the bridge party in hearing range, was unimpressed. He glanced across at the Gunnery Officer – a lieutenant-commander in his late thirties, passed over for promotion to commander and going nowhere – assessed him as bluff, hearty and stupid. Typical of the unsuccessful naval officer, in fact, he thought. Bitterly, he accepted that the man was his superior in rank and would remain so – no promotion for him.

Captain Archdale scowled.

“That is not my opinion, Guns. Armour-piercing should be used against every target greater than a destroyer. You will load armour-piercing in future, Guns!”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Guns’ expression was of a man obeying an unreasonable command, constricted by naval discipline to perform a foolish act.

“On return to Malta I shall request permission of C-in-C Mediterranean Fleet to take more rounds aboard for the nine point two batteries. As the six inch are effectively valueless, it makes sense to reduce the number of rounds for them and use the space in the magazines for ammunition that can actually be fired.”

“Eighty rounds per gun, official issue, sir.”

“So it is, Guns. We shall endeavour to be slightly unofficial.”

That, Christopher thought, might well have been the most daring comment Captain Archdale had ever made. He was amazed at his boldness.

“How did you know about the bolt, Adams?”

Lascelles was interested – he was a gunner by trade and had vaguely heard of bolts, doubted he would recognise one by its splash.

“Saw them at Cape Town – Simonstown, actually. A pair of the old sixty-four pounders dating back fifty years and kept as museum pieces with their ammunition by their side. They had photographs of them firing.”

They were sat in the wardroom, waiting for luncheon to be served.

“Never been there. West Indies and the Atlantic coast of Canada when I was a mid. Other than that, Home waters.”

“I spent my two years on St Vincent – a long cruise.”

“I have read that the Austrians still have a number of brass guns in service, Adams. Apparently, they needed to keep their bronze foundries in business, so they cast muzzle loaders until a very few years ago. I wouldn’t mind betting that was a brass gun they fired at us.”

“Perhaps that’s why they missed – we are a big enough target I might have thought.”

They ate a rather poor meal and returned to duty.

“Cooks upset by gunfire, do you think, Lascelles?”

“Let us hope they have recovered by dinner, Adams!”

There was a course change due and Christopher made his way up to the bridge in time to hear the cry for action stations. He ran the last few steps and took his place, out of the way of the active officers.

“Never seen that before!”

The Commander was shaking his head in amazement, pointing to the port quarter, hand raised high.

Christopher followed the line of his finger and spotted an aeroplane, a seaplane to be precise, with floats. It was about a quarter of a mile distant, travelling at not less than sixty knots, he estimated, and circling around Connaught. They could see two figures sat up in the open cockpit, one of them using a pair of field glasses to examine the ship.

“They would be in range of a Maxim, if we had one that pointed up, sir.”

“A two pound pompom might be better, Adams. It would need some sort of timing to the shells, which might not be practical… A Vickers on a swivel might be the best. Set high, above the bridge, perhaps. As it is, we can do nothing.”

“Neither can they, in fact, sir. They can observe but will hardly be able to guide ships to us. No possible way they can have a wireless transmitter up in that little machine. They will have to fly home to pass their messages on.”

The Commander agreed. It was a reconnaissance machine, nothing more.

“If we were escorting one of the convoys to Mudros, sir, they could be a nuisance.”

“Guiding destroyers or light cruisers, thirty-knotters perhaps… Nasty! We must push for guns designed for killing aeroplanes, Adams. Write me up a report and a proposal for guns to attack heavier than air machines, if you would be so good. I will submit it under my name, of course.”

Christopher nodded; if his own name was attached the report would go straight into the wastepaper bin, unread.

“I wonder if the RNAS would take me, sir.”

“Highly unlikely, Adams. You have the mark of Cain on your forehead. You would do well in the air service, I do not doubt. You will never be given the opportunity, man!”

Unsaid was the advice to stop trying – whatever he did, he was doomed in the Navy.

“What is it doing now, sir?”

The seaplane was dropping from its previous one thousand feet, or so they estimated, and diving in a direct line towards them. It lined up directly on the bows and flew towards them no more than a hundred feet above the masthead. As it passed over Connaught the observer threw a pair of small, black objects out of his cockpit. They bounced on the deck and rolled towards the side then exploded, doing no harm at all other than to put a black stain on the armour of a forward nine point two.

“Grenades of some sort, sir.”

“Half a pound of charge. Pointless!”

Captain Archdale’s voice sounded behind them.

“If one or both of those had landed in the bridge, we could have lost our most senior officers. They could not possibly sink us. They could do some harm. That plane is twice as big as Bleriot’s, more perhaps. That is in the space of what, five years? In wartime, with government money available to the manufacturers, how big will they grow next year, or the one after? What would happen if they managed to drop something huge, a fifty pounder, say down a funnel?”

“Definitely write me that report, Adams. We need guns to protect ourselves against these damned machines!”

Captain Archdale agreed.

“Heavy machine guns, I would think, Adams. The Russians have some point seven inch guns, or thereabouts. Saw ‘em on one of their battleships a couple of years ago, Imperator Pavel, a predreadnought. Visited Pompey for some reason and I went down and took a look at her – I live just outside the town, at Portchester. Interesting ship – dirty! On a visit and they had not cleaned her up, believe it or not! Officers were hopeless, mostly half-drunk at eleven o’clock in the morning. Interesting ship though. Getting to the point of it all, she had a pair of heavy machine guns mounted on the upper bridge, apparently as protection against torpedo boats. Belt fed and needing at least two men in action, I would think, but could do some harm to a plane on a straight line to attack a ship.”

“Travelling at sixty, it might be difficult to hit at all, sir. A few heavy rounds might do some harm to those flimsy wings, sir. Wood and thin canvas – shouldn’t be too difficult to shred them.”

The plane provided a topic of conversation as they headed north towards Pola.

General opinion was that there was little future in aviation – aeroplanes were too small and could not carry a useful bomb.

The sloops met the two cruisers later in the day and were sent off together to potter along and examine every little harbour along the western shores of the islands and rendezvous with the cruisers when they returned from the north. They were too slow to remain in company on a reconnaissance of the main fleet anchorage.

Pola, the main Adriatic base, was a different proposition to Split. The large bay was heavily defended by shore batteries and a boom with a guardship. There were four at least of dreadnoughts at anchor, all with smoke at two funnels, power available to the turrets. Besides that there was a collection of predreadnoughts and smaller ships, some of them with steam up and ready to sail. Connaught viewed the port from a distance, through glasses, and turned away.

Captain Archdale had no hesitation in retreating.

“Too tough a nut for us to crack, gentlemen! In range of a score at least of twelve and ten inchers, firing from a stable ship at anchor. No possibility of firing torpedoes because of the boom. All we could achieve there would be to get sunk quickly, our success at Split wiped off the books, cancelled out.”

As they watched a flotilla of destroyers led by a light cruiser cast off and formed a line towards the gate in the boom.

“Full speed. Course for Italian waters, Mr Adams. If they think we know something about the Italians that they do not, they will not chase.”

“Course for Venice, sir? Make it clear that we are heading towards a naval base?”

“Make it so, Mr Adams. Stand down from action stations for an hour or two. Feed the hands, Commander, let them get a little rest. Guns, open fire on the destroyers if they come in range. Aft guns only. Common shell, being small ships.”

“Aye aye, sir. They won’t fire torpedoes at much in excess of three thousand yards, sir. Open fire then.”

“I said ‘in range’, Guns. The last I heard, our main armament has a range of twenty-nine thousand yards!”

“That’s only in theory, sir. We don’t actually shoot at that range. Not much above five thousand, when you consider it, sir.”

“Then what is the point in having guns with a range six times as long?”

“There is none, sir. We have told the Admiralty time and again that we need proper broadside guns and nothing else. Chasers with a range of five thousand, if they must, but the bulk of our work should be at one hundred yards or less, the way a battle should be fought properly, sir. Really, sir, we ought to have more men trained as boarders, as well!”

“God help us all if it ever comes to battle, Guns. No wonder we lost Monmouth and Good Hope!”

“The Huns were unfair, sir. Must have been. They cheated.”

“The survivors from Scharnhorst and Gneisenau said they scored hits at twenty thousand yards, knocked out half of her main armament in the first ten minutes.”

“All very well, sir – if you believe a Hun. Much more likely there was an explosion in the gun, a faulty shell, sir. Stands to reason the Hun can’t be more accurate than us.”

“That attitude will kill us all, Guns. My orders stand. You will open fire at twenty-nine thousand yards, recording each round. Mr Adams, you are to keep a diary of the action, placing each shellburst on a chart. The Yeoman of the Signals will assist with spotting.”

The Yeoman had the largest telescope in the ship, with the highest magnification.

“With respect, sir, I do not think I need to be spied on.”

“With respect, Guns, you will obey my orders, unless you wish to stand down from duty.”

“No, sir. I will, as always, obey orders.”

Connaught made her westerly course, Salford in line ahead, each at a steady twenty-two knots. Christopher kept the plot and estimated that the pursuing flotilla had worked their way up to twenty-seven.

“About three hours to torpedo range, sir.”

“Good enough, Mr Adams. Plenty of daylight. At least an hour during which they will be in the reach of our main armament. What are they?”

“Tatra class destroyers, sir. Fast but lightly gunned – just two four inch and four eighteen inch torpedo tubes. Half a dozen of something like a ten pounder as well. The light cruiser is slowing them, I would say. If I am right in my identification, she carries no tubes and about nine of four inch guns – she could play hell with a lightly escorted convoy but is neither heavily gunned nor well-armoured. Scout cruisers, they call that class. We can ignore her, sir.”

“So… four destroyers all we have to worry about. We have no effective weapons to deal with them if the main battery cannot put them down.”

The solution seemed obvious. Christopher said nothing, his opinion not wanted.

“Salford to line abeam, initially. If they close, then she can use her speed and six inch guns to good effect… Do nothing for an hour or two, give no prior warning to them… Yes, that’s it! No change in dispositions for the nonce, Adams.”

Archdale had come up with a workable solution, but far too slowly. In a long, slow stern chase he had time for his ponderous calculations.  If he was faced with battle and the need for instant decisions, then Christopher was fearful for the ship.

They waited, silently. The watch changed and Christopher remained on the bridge, eating a sandwich brought up by the bridge messenger.

The voice tube from the gunner’s position gave its whistle.

“Destroyers at twenty-nine thousand yards, extreme range, sir.”

“Open fire.”

The after nine point two turret elevated its barrel and fired. They waited for the shell to travel more than fourteen miles, telescopes on the leading destroyer. There was a water splash, half a mile to starboard and a cable short. A slight delay and the gun fired again.

After four rounds the shells were falling within a cable of the leading destroyer.

“Very good, Guns. Open fire with all guns that can bear.”

The two after wing turrets, port and starboard, could both bear on the pursuing ships. The placing of the six turrets allowed four to be fired on the broadside, three forward and three aft.

There was a prolonged delay while the gun crews were called to their stations.

“Why are the guns unmanned, Guns?”

“You ordered me to use the after gun, sir. I saw no need to expend shells unnecessarily.”

Captain Archdale took that as deliberate provocation.

“Stand down from duty, sir. Place yourself under arrest in your cabin. Mr Lascelles, take over as Gunner.”

Two minutes and the three guns fired in sequence, ten seconds apart so that their rounds could be spotted. The three shells fell within a hundred yards of the destroyer. It was a probability that splinters would have hit the unarmoured hull, might have caused casualties. The guns fired again.

“Straddle, sir. All three shells close alongside the lead destroyer.”

Christopher watched intently.

“Turning away, sir. Range opening.”

They watched quietly as the flotilla turned back towards Pola. A final three shells splashed in their wake.

“Good shooting, Mr Lascelles. You will perform all duties as Gunner until the squadron returns to Malta.”

The cruisers turned their heads south and made towards the rendezvous with the sloops. The Adriatic was empty of enemies and the senior officers devoted their time to report writing.

Captain Archdale presented himself before C-in-C Mediterranean, rather pleased with his performance. The Admiral was inclined to agree with his assessment.

“Sank a predreadnought, Archdale. Good work, sir! The Austro-Hungarians have only a few big ships and the loss of even one will make them more cautious. You say that Pola is untouchable?”

“The boom is massive, sir. We could not get too close but it seems to be tree trunks, big old oaks from the Dalmatian forests, linked together by a pair of heavy iron chains and with a gate in the centre of the channel, guarded by a boom ship. The ship has winches to open the gate and was carrying two at least of heavy guns. Adams thought she was an old barbette ship, a coast defence sort of thing with a pair of ten inchers. Very able young officer, that one! Been useful. Pity…”

“As you say, Archdale. Nothing to be done for him. I have a replacement for him, if you want. New out from England. A youngish lieutenant commander. Passed his courses so he must be competent even if not about to set the world on fire.”

“Send him across, if you please, sir. Adams is an outstanding young fellow, but he don’t fit into my wardroom. Can’t, can he?”

“I agree, Archdale. All he can do is be an embarrassment. I have a place for him, properly out of sight. You are to go to Scapa, by the way, to join the Grand Fleet. You will eventually be with Black Prince and Duke of Edinburgh, the three ships in the class as a squadron. I don’t know who will be senior. Obviously, you will go Home with my strongest commendation, Archdale. A successful action with a capital ship is a feather in my cap and I have already forwarded your report by cable to the Admiralty with my very positive comments added. Before you go, what’s to do with your Gunner?”

“Old-fashioned idiot and insubordinate with it, sir! Told me I should be training the men in boarding tactics and should not be opening fire at more than half a mile distant! As well, when ordered to open fire at long range on the flotilla of destroyers in pursuit, he tried to avoid the order, using one gun rather than the three that would bear, apparently because he thought it was a waste of ammunition.”

“Is that so? Well, the Navy knows how to deal with that sort, Archdale. No court, always better to avoid that if possible. There’s an old, slow protected cruiser, Royal Arthur, just come in, on her way to Aden to patrol the Red Sea and Persian Gulf coast. Awful ship, had one of her nine point twos replaced by a pair of six inch on a newly fitted raised forecastle. Looks appalling! I’ll take her Gunner for you, send your man across. I know the man I’m giving you – reliable chap and trustworthy!”

Captain Archdale was properly grateful.

“That will be far the best, sir. Don’t want an able man to be wasted at Aden! What of Adams, sir?”

“Send him across, all his dunnage with him. I have just what he needs at this juncture!”

The Viscount was displeased. He sat at the large desk in his library, long since converted into a Town office – all those old books dumped into packing cases and tucked away in one of the cellars – while his eldest son stood uneasily before him. His heir was a grown man, well into his twenties and a Member of Parliament besides but stood hunched up and apprehensive like a little boy who was about to feel the cane.

“Just what the Hell did you think you were doing, Jeremy? You have destroyed Christopher as well as doing the family name no good at all! He is broken, can never come back to Town – not to England at all, in fact. All of my work to establish him in a career to match Beatty’s, completely wasted! He will remain a lieutenant until the day the war ends and will then be ordered to send in his papers. And why? Because you chose to take him to some grubby whorehouse and give him a disease there! Are you poxed as well?”

The heir denied the accusation.

“Not me, sir! Can’t imagine how it happened! Mrs Wenlock’s, most exclusive house in Town, sir. Ten guineas apiece and a hundred a year subscription besides!”

“Is that so? Well, her days are coming to an end. Just wait one moment.”

The Viscount took up the telephone apparatus and demanded the attention of the exchange.

“Scotland Yard, the office of the Commissioner. No, I don’t know the number! How should I know some policeman’s details? I am Adams, Viscount Adams. In person.”

It took three minutes to be speaking to the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

“A damned brothel, Commissioner. A Mrs Wenlock… Yes, in Mayfair. Diseased! Harmed at least one naval officer to my knowledge. Her and all of her whores to take up residence in Holloway Women’s Prison, at soonest!”

There was a slight delay while the Commissioner could be heard shouting for the presence of a particular superintendent of police.

“Yes, I am correct in name and location and I expect action. I do not expect the old whore to be forewarned and enabled to escape justice, sir!”

The Commissioner restrained himself and assured the Viscount that the arrests would be made that day and the procuress and all of her employees would stand before magistrates that afternoon and would be remanded to the Old Bailey for trial. The judge would be informed of the background to the case.

“If she gets less than fifteen years penal servitude, I shall be most upset, Commissioner. The Home Secretary, Mr McKenna, would be most distressed to perceive that the Metropolitan Police has been in the habit of protecting brothels.”

The threat was overt and crude, and immediately effective. The Viscount was assured that the premises would be raided before noon and that all present would be placed under arrest and would receive no mercy at all.

“Well, Jeremy?”

“Should not you send word to the House, sir? It is by no means impossible that there may be a client or two on the premises. There was a late sitting of the House of Commons last night – we did not rise before two o’clock. Any of the backbenchers who went for a little relaxation after the strain of the day might still be asleep at noon, sir!”

“Bad luck! They can tender their resignations from the House this afternoon. They will not be wanted by their parties, I do not doubt.”

“I do not know what it will do for my name, sir. It will become known that you twisted the Commissioner’s arm, sir – he will have to protect himself and can only do so by naming you.”

“Let him! If he does, I shall address the Lords on the disgusting decline in public morality in wartime. While our young men give their all in the trenches, their supposed betters wallow in degradation in houses of ill-fame in London. I shall demand to know why the Metropolitan Police has permitted such infamy and shall call for the resignation of those responsible for such disgraceful misconduct.”

“I shall buttonhole McKenna, sir, pass the word that all must be kept quiet.”

“Do so, Jeremy. I am most displeased by your part in your brother’s downfall. I do not know what may be done for him, if anything indeed. His Naval career is at an end. I do not wish him to become a soldier – I doubt he could be commissioned. I can only hope that he may be sent to a far distant posting and there be discharged as unfit for duty due to ill-health. I cannot organise that myself. Postings to the better stations and ships are one matter, but Fisher will not tolerate the protection of a disgraced officer – he is too much a damned Puritan for that! I much suggest that you should behave yourself, young man! There will be a substantial donation to Party funds – not anonymous – and you must show willing in the House. I will expect you to attend Committee meetings and show yourself briefed properly and saying the correct things.”

Jeremy was almost distraught, felt that his father’s commands were unreasonable.

“I say, sir, I didn’t take a seat to work for my living, you know!”

“That has changed, dear boy! If you wish to keep your current generous allowance, you will do as I damned well tell you! You are spending five thousand a year on your little pleasures at the moment. Fall into line or that will become five hundred!”

Jeremy was silenced – five hundred would hardly pay his quarter’s tailors’ bills and he must not fall into excessive debt as a Member, particularly in wartime when the House was setting an example of austere national virtue.

The morning’s newspapers trumpeted the raid on a brothel in Mayfair and deplored the disgusting behaviour of the wicked women there, though saying nothing of their blue-blooded customers. There was no doubt that those arrested would feel the full force of the Law.

The Home Secretary stated that he was much disturbed to discover houses of ill-fame in the centre of fashionable London. He assured the House that the Metropolitan Police, the only force in the country under his direct control, would be taking great pains to ensure this new corruption was extirpated from the capital. Those Honourable Members present in the chamber chorused their support for such measures and three of them sought audience with the Speaker.

The trio announced their desire to withdraw from their seats and were instantly granted ‘offices of profit under the Crown’, a fiction that disqualified them from membership of the House of Commons, it being impossible to resign one’s seat. The younger two, new backbenchers and unknown, said they were no longer able to sit in safety in London while better men went to war and they were to seek commissions. Mr Speaker applauded their zeal and said that he would be pleased to pass the word to the War Office that they must be posted to the trenches as soon as they had joined their regiments. They would be in France inside the week. They showed delighted faces on hearing that.

The third was an older gentleman, in his forties and portly, not the sort soldiers were made from. He was to devote his time to his fields – the country needed food and it behoved every agriculturalist to do his utmost to provide it. The Speaker gravely agreed.

None of the three were ministers and their departure from the House went unnoticed and unrecorded by the Press.

Chapter Two

“Excuse me, Major Baker! I really must have a word with you, sir.”

“Come in, Mr Wincanton. Briefly, I am busy this morning.”

The second lieutenant entered the office, considered taking a chair, chose to stand in front of the awe-inspiring young major.

“It’s not good enough, you know, sir!”

“What is not, Mr Wincanton?”

“The attitude of the Sergeant Major, sir! I am an officer and he is one of the men – and Irish, to boot! I do not expect to be rebuked by such as him, sir!”

Richard felt his hackles raise. He turned in his chair to look Wincanton square in the face.

“Do you not, Mr Wincanton? Fancy that! Tell me, why did Sergeant Major O’Grady choose to rebuke you?”

“I do not consider that entirely relevant, sir.”

“Do you not? Do you bloody well not?”

Richard allowed himself to lose his temper, to bellow, to explode in outrage, was satisfied with the result. The very young gentleman almost cringed, took a step back in horror as he roared.

“When I ask a question of the most junior of officers, it is because I believe it to be relevant! And my opinion is the only one that counts in this office, in this battalion, in this bloody barracks, for that matter! Why, Mr Wincanton, did ‘Major O’Grady rebuke you?”

Mr Wincanton, not yet nineteen and four days in the battalion, recoiled further and answered in a very little voice.

“He said that I was setting a poor example to the recruits, sir. I was no more than walking past the drill square, sir.”

“And how were you walking, boy?”

“I do not know what you mean, sir.”

“Do not force me to ask the ‘major for a formal report, Mr Wincanton. I have no wish, yet, to wheel you before the colonel and request a court upon you for conduct unbecoming. I shall do so if it seems to me that you lack officer-like qualities. You are hovering on the verge of becoming a private soldier, Mr Wincanton!”

“But… All I did was to walk past on my way to the Mess, sir. For morning tea. It is that time, sir. I was not quite looking where I was going and walked between the ‘major and the company he was drilling.”

“Is that all? You say you ‘walked’, Mr Wincanton. Why did you not march when you were in sight of a company of green recruits? Why did you not look where you were going? Is your tea more important than the training and discipline of new men to the ranks?”

“My father is a Guards captain, retired and now active in the House of Lords, sir. He has always told me that officers do not march like private soldiers.”

“That of course, is perfectly correct, in the Guards, Mr Wincanton. We are not the Gentleman’s Sons. We are a professional regiment with a long history of success in war. We do not look pretty in front of Royalty – we fight! Our officers are not mere gentlemen! We are fighting soldiers. At all times. The Guards fight well on the occasions that they are called to battle. We are ready to fight all day, every day. Our officers march when in uniform and in sight of their men. You will do the same. To assist you in remembering that, Mr Wincanton, you will shadow the Officer of the Day each day for the next two weeks. When you are proficient in all that the Officer of the Day must do, then you will become Officer of the Day for the thirty days thereafter. You will become very popular in the Mess, Mr Wincanton, for saving other officers that tedious but important function for the month. Now, get out of my office, find who is officer of the day and arrange to observe all he does! There is a duty list on the Board.”

Richard went next door to the Colonel’s office.

“Good morning, sir. Rather poor bunch of new second lieutenants, sir. What sort of training do they get before coming to us?”

“For most of them nothing, Baker! No Sandhurst these days. From school direct to their battalion, provided they pass their interview at the War Office. All they need do is offer a birth certificate – which can easily be forged – and display a straight back learned in their Cadet days at school and answer a few simple questions, mainly designed to show that they are gentlemen born. ‘What wine do you take with fish’, is a favourite, I am told. If they do not know the answer is ‘white’, they won’t fit into the Mess, so they say. If they can claim to have ridden since childhood, so much the better.”

“And that is it?”

“For most, yes. Some few will have experience as a Territorial. A number from the Empire, I am told, will have been members of a militia in their colony. A very few will come from the ranks, but they will normally be known already, promoted in their own regiment. There are some older men as well, returning to uniform after sending in their papers a few years ago. The overwhelming bulk are juveniles who have left the classroom and believe they have become men. Which one did I hear you shouting at?”

“Wincanton – snotty-nosed brat! Complaining that a mere sergeant major had torn him off a strip for walking across a company under training on the drill square. Then he had the audacity to inform me that his dear papa was a peer and a one-time Guardee!”

“What a foolish little fellow that one must be! Too inexperienced to be made officer of the day for a month, I would say.”

Richard grinned.

“I thought that. He is to spend a fortnight standing at the shoulder of the officer of the day, all day, every day, until he knows the job. Then he can spend thirty days in the function, which requires him to wake twice in the night and appear in uniform. At the end of that time he should be staggering with exhaustion!”

“With any luck, Baker, he will see the latest request for volunteers from the RFC and choose to leave us. He don’t sound as if he will make the grade with us so I shall be more than happy to give him a suitable report and send him on his way.”

“I am sure that flying will suit his talents, sir. I will make sure he sees the notice and that he is encouraged to apply. For the rest of them, sir, should we do something for them?”

They discussed the question and decided that the new officers must be brought up to their standards.

Seven new second lieutenants were brought to parade out of sight behind the mess building, still digesting their lunch. Richard stood to their front, together with Sergeant Abbott.

“You have had nearly a week to settle into the battalion, gentlemen. Some of you have done that. Others require some help, it might seem. Sergeant Abbott will be assisting you with your drill, as it is practised in the trenches. Abbott has substantial experience in the field and carries the Military Medal, well won. I will expect your cooperation, gentlemen. Having gained the basic knowledge, which will come quicker for some of you than others, no doubt, your company captains will take over your training. Carry on, Sergeant Abbott.”

Abbott reported in company with three of the second lieutenants at the end of the afternoon.

“Beg pardon, sir. These three gentlemen probably know more than I do about basic field evolutions. Not necessary for them to continue with the four others, sir.”

“Excellent! Thank you, Sergeant Abbott. Carry on. If you will remain a few minutes, gentlemen?”

They stood to attention and waited for the sergeant to leave.

“I do not know you yet, I am afraid. I have been rather busy in the office, trying to rebuild the structure of the battalion. If you would introduce yourselves again, please?”

“Messer, sir. Victoria Militia, sir. Lieutenant there for three years.”

Messer was short and broad in chest and shoulders, a strong man physically, face well tanned from an outdoor life, probably little more than twenty, a mild Australian twang to his voice.

“You happened to be here in England, Mr Messer?”

“No, sir. I was in South Africa, getting experience in the gold fields, underground. My father had arranged it for me. We have some interests in mining at home.”

“And you took ship to England to join up. Well done.”

“When it became clear that it was not going to be a short affair, over by Christmas, sir.”

“Who is next? Let me see, you are Mr Godstone, are you not?”

A taller man and athletic seeming, in his early twenties.

“That’s me, sir. Come over to see what was happening and got the chance to join up, on the sly, sir.”

“That is not a Canadian accent, I believe?”

“No, sir. American, sir. I attended the Citadel, sir, and had intended to take a commission in the US Army – but you’ve got a war and we have not, sir.”

“Yes.”

Richard’s face was blank – he had never heard of the Citadel or any other military college, the institution being unknown in Britain, Sandhurst being exclusively for officers who had already joined the Army.

“Well, you are very welcome, Mr Godstone. We need well-trained officers and you certainly seem to be that. Where exactly is this, ah, Citadel?”

“South Carolina, sir, but it accepts students, cadets in fact, from all over the States.”

“Very good. I presume you are officially Canadian, on your papers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Best you remain that way, Mr Godstone. With the States being officially neutral, there could be some objections to your presence in our ranks, and we certainly do not want to lose you.”

Richard turned to the remaining second lieutenant, an older man, into his thirties.

“Willoughby, sir. I served two years with the Rifles, sir, until my elder brother died in a riding accident – he fell when out with the Quorn. My father demanded that I send my papers in and learn the estates, sir. When it became clear from the losses that all experienced soldiers were needed, sir, I returned to the Colours.”

“Did you see service with the Rifles?”

“Only in Ireland, sir.”

Ireland was a home posting, although occasionally violent.

“Well, you will see action with us, gentlemen. I am glad you are here and will need your assistance. You have seen how green the battalion is. Neuve Chapelle came close to destroying us. Seven new second lieutenants, four lieutenants and as many captains. Fifteen new officers and three returned from hospital and having to fully recover their fitness. We lost the bulk of our sergeants and corporals as well. The best men had been promoted, of course. Being the best, they were prominent and were caught by the machine guns. A few will return to the ranks eventually. For the while, I need your assistance to bring us back to what we were – an experienced, crack battalion. We sailed to France on the third day of the war and marched with the leading battalions and fought all the way to Ypres. We will return to France later this year – we have the War Office’s promise on that. We must be on the very top of our form when we sail.”

The three nodded respectfully.

“Beg pardon, sir. What do the men need in the trenches? It must be different to the soldiering we have been taught before the war.”

“Good question, Mr Godstone. Basically, the men need to be alert, awake to shells coming in and the possibility of raids in the night. Much of the life is simply tedious – cold, wet, poorly fed and with little to do. It is like being in a siege, waiting for something to happen and unable to control what. Where possible, I shall organise raids at night, to keep the men active and alert. Your job will be to know the men – watch them for illnesses particularly. Many will not report sick for not wishing to be sent to the rear or returned to England. A few will become erratic, officers as well as men, and may need to be sent away for treatment in a special hospital. The strain is the biggest problem. Keep them amused. Let them play games or read books or take up hobbies – knitting as an example. Encourage them to do so, to sing and to whistle. Anything to keep them occupied. Obviously, watch them for cleanliness, but do not chase them too much! We had one officer who attempted to introduce daily inspections – a parade with blancoed belts and webbing and polished boots and spotless uniforms in six inches of mud!”

They nodded thoughtfully.

The concept of a parade was in no way alien to them; they could see it was ridiculous in a trench.

“A last point, gentlemen. Protect them from the brass, which includes me. If I see a bottle of illegal gin, I must take action. Make damned sure I don’t see such a thing!”

“Which don’t mean no gin, sir…”

“Exactly, Mr Godstone!”

They grinned quietly.

“Will you be telling the boys this, sir?”

“Not yet, Mr Willoughby. They must learn the absolute basics first. Wincanton is learning the hard way; the other three may need to be shaken up as well. You will assist me by speaking to them, if you would be so kind. You are from the same background as them and they may well listen to you. They might not hear anything said by an American or a colonial.”

Godstone laughed.

“Heard that already, sir. Eighteen years old and know nothing other than some sort of schoolboy cadet club. I mentioned that I had taken a bachelor’s degree in science and military studies but they did not seem to comprehend what a degree was – thought they were a certificate to show that one had been to Oxford. In any case, American learning could not be a substitute for a proper education.”

“Sorry!”

Godstone shook his head.

“Not your fault, sir. I did not ask what their education had been although I did admit to not having played cricket or rugger. That seemed to condemn me in some way.”

Willoughby confirmed Godstone’s comments – he had been there and had heard them.

“Oundle, Rugby and Stowe between them, sir. I mentioned that I had attended Eton and they seemed rather sour. I think that two of the three would have gone up to Oxford. Wincanton had the intellect to sit his terms at a university but had a problem with idleness.”

“I was Dartmouth, of course, so I know little of the schools.”

“We know that, sir. ‘The seasick sailor who chose to march to battle’ – I suspect we all read those headlines, sir.”

Godstone had not been in a position to read English newspapers.

“I saw the press in New York, sir. They are covering the war, of course. You don’t look too much like the photographs, sir.”

“Photographs? In the American papers?”

“Very much so, sir. All of the England supporting papers made a splash of your medal, sir.”

“Good God!”

They laughed and left the room, deciding the interview was over.

“Numbers are up, sir. We now have eight hundred bodies in the battalion again.”

“Good. We shall not have a second major – a shortage of experienced officers, I am afraid. Makes it easier in some ways, Baker. We do have a doctor. Young Sankey has been sent back to England and appointed to the battalion, at his request. He took a bullet himself, it would seem, the day after we were pulled out of the line. Exposed himself bringing a man in over the front of the trench. Wiring party hit by random shellfire and he went out to bring the wounded in.”

“Well done the doctor! Recognised, I trust, sir?”

“Military Cross.”

“As it should be, sir. Was he much hurt?”

“Grazed across the buttocks, being bent over to lift the wounded man up.”

They laughed – there was something funny about being shot in the bum.

“Not a scar to display, sir.”

“Not quite, Baker!”

“Useful to have a man who knows his way about the field of battle, sir. What is the position regarding orderlies, sir? Are they supplied by the medical people or are they ours to provide?”

“RAMC supply them. In effect, the doctor is attached to us rather than part of the battalion. Makes it simpler in many ways – he does his own administration.”

“Gets one load off our backs, sir. How do we stand for three-o-three rounds, sir? We must fire live and far more frequently than at the moment.”

“More should be arriving any day, Baker. The shortage of munitions is on its way to being solved, I am told. More factories opening literally every week. Rifle calibre ammunition will be in full supply from this month. Artillery rounds are still far too few, and the Navy is fighting us for them. Bloody sailors! Sit up in their tin castles at Scapa Flow and do nothing of use to anybody!”

Richard was not inclined to disagree – he had little love for the Senior Service.

“Still, up to Town for the weekend, Baker. You are invited to the Duchess’ ball, as you know. Right that you should be, too. Room at the Dorchester and I shall pick you up for eight o’clock. Best bib and tucker, ribbons not miniature medals – they fall off when dancing. Of course, only the one ribbon in your case, but the best, eh?”

Richard managed a smile. The ball was to be his introduction to Society, something necessary to his future, assuming he survived the war.

The ball was set for Friday night. Richard left Bedford in the early afternoon, Paisley properly in company bearing suitcases and forcing his way into the crowded third-class carriages. First-class, to the front of the train, closest to the barriers at St Pancras when they arrived, was less full although there were no empty compartments and he was forced to share with two other officers, a pair of captains, who had joined the train earlier in the journey. They had glanced at his medal ribbon and surrendered the most comfortable corner seat without prompting, sitting only after he had settled himself.

They journeyed in silence. It was not done to address oneself to other passengers on a train and the pair did not wish to disturb the hero with their chatter.

It was possible to discover a taxi at St Pancras, provided the driver wished to take one up. Most passengers used the Tube or an omnibus. A porter led Richard directly to a cab. They waited for Paisley and permitted him to join his master in the vehicle. It was not the way things should be done – wartime demanded its sacrifices.

“Dorchester, guv.”

The elderly cabby smiled his thanks on receiving a tip equal to the fare.

“Thanks, guv. Give them Huns one for me, guv!”

It seemed a particularly stupid comment to Richard but he smiled and nodded nonetheless. He did not want to show grumpy in front of the Dorchester’s porters. Menials talked and reputations spread rapidly, or so Colonel Braithwaite had warned him. He was to behave himself when in public view.

“Gossip, Baker! The more prominent the figure, the more he is talked about. Make sure they have nothing to say on the bad side. The least slip will be magnified and made much of. Precise, quiet and sober, the last especially! You have a choice, you know. A man as prominent as you can either be a grave, polite, not unfriendly figure or a roaring boy, up to all sorts of rigs and rows and roistering through Society. Wiser far to be the first sort! Wild men are too often pushed into wild places! The roaring bully-boy is a nuisance in the end and is sent off into more and more danger until eventually he is mourned in his hero’s grave. The serious-minded man receives more respect and is valued, promoted, used properly. You are too able a young man to waste your substance in high living and drinking and womanising, Baker!”

Richard thanked his senior for his advice.

“I will be a duck out of water in Society, sir. My father is the fourth Baker to own the ironworks and that is the whole of my ancestry. The red of iron runs in my blood, not the blue of the aristocracy!”

“I know, Baker. I do not care! Neither will any person of value. The old ways are passing – I much hope, at least. You will enter Society at my shoulder – and my family is more than respectable, I will have you know. I can call cousin with no fewer than three peers of the realm on the two sides of my family. I will introduce you and they will offer their protection. If they accept you, then so will the rest. In any case, your father has money, and that goes a long way to offset any minor faults in your birth!”

Richard was entertained by the final comment, wondering just how true it might be.

Colonel Braithwaite appeared within the minute of his time, as was to be expected of a military man. He gave Richard a brief glance and nodded.

“We make a fine pair, Baker. Colonel and his senior major from a fighting regiment. Both of us to be valued by the ladies, of course. I am of marriageable age still – in fact, I am looking for a wife, Baker. I had the word just an hour ago that my older brother is no more. Damned fool was a Guardee in his youth and returned to service. Died in France yesterday – how, I don’t know, for he was staff, of course. Probably drank himself to death or picked up with a young tart who was too much for him to handle – all the staff do is drink and whore, as far as I can see! Ten years my elder. Fifty-five – just the age to have a heart attack. No title but not a small estate and I must do something about it, I suppose. Known I might have to for years but my younger brother married fifteen years back and has two sons so the name can’t be lost. However, now that I have inherited, might as well do the job properly with my own son to follow me.”

Richard did not know whether to congratulate him on the estate or offer sympathy for the loss.

“Difficult to know what is best in time of war, sir.”

“Very. Not for you, of course. You will not wish to marry for another three or four years, despite the rank. You are what, twenty years old now?”

“Rising twenty-one, sir. My birthday is in three months. Still, as you say, I am hardly of an age to wish to take a wife, unless…”

“Exactly, Baker. No man knows what may be waiting around the corner. There may be a young lady who will be yours for your life. A quick drink first, we don’t wish to arrive before nine o’clock at earliest. Neither early nor too fashionably late – we are not to imply that we had an earlier engagement to fulfil before we attended the Duchess’ ball. We are too junior in the world to play that game!”

They took a quiet Scotch before leaving the hotel.

“Something I never thought to ask, Baker, but you do know most dances, do you not?”

“If they have invented anything in the last four years, I shall be at a loss, sir. Otherwise, no difficulties. Dartmouth included dancing classes for all cadets – the naval officer is to be at home in Society, by order.”

“Quite right, too! Sensible action by the Admiralty – a pleasant rarity!”

They entered the great house, part of a stream of couples and parties, having chosen the favoured time of arrival. The Dowager Duchess was stood in the entrance hall, next to her son, the current Duke. Richard made his bow as Colonel Braithwaite made the introduction.

“My major, Your Grace. Richard Baker.”

“You are most welcome, Major Baker. I am honoured by your presence, sir.”

The Duke added a few words, murmuring his pleasure in entertaining so distinguished a soldier.

Richard bowed again and the Colonel led him away.

The ballroom was vast, able to stand one hundred couples and with tables for at least as many again around the sides. There was an orchestra playing a waltz, the floor as yet no more than half-full.

“Perhaps a quarter of the men in uniform, Baker. Most of those will be staff or training or other Home Establishment. The civilians will all be in the most important of jobs or will have previously unsuspected health issues that render it impossible for them to be accepted as volunteers. It makes us stand out to an extent, which is not too bad a thing.”

Braithwaite looked about him.

“Let me introduce you to my cousin Archibald, Baker. He ain’t very bright but he is a viscount – the two cancel each other out and he is a politician. Minister for something insignificant, I believe.”

Lord Cleethorpe was pleased to greet his military cousin and delighted to be seen in the company of the famous Major Baker.

“Jolly good to meet you, old chap! I must make you known to my wife, and my daughter… Where are they?”

The pair were sat with two other females, rose with alacrity when they saw that cousin Braithwaite was in the company of a not unhandsome young man. The daughter was twenty years of age and unwed, indeed almost unpursued, was more than happy to talk to a soldier.

“Major Richard Baker, VC, my dear.”

Lady Cleethorpe made her curtsy, as did her overawed daughter.

The band struck up a new dance and Richard was forced to request the young lady to join him on the floor. First partner of one of the more eminent guests – Miss Cleethorpe accepted with real pleasure.

They conversed a little, as was mandatory, and she showed herself not especially bright and trod on his foot twice, flushing bright scarlet and apologising. Richard felt sorry for her and was glad when the dance ended and he could return her to her mother’s care. He made his bow and retired to Colonel Braithwaite’s side and to an unending series of introductions and a flow of dance partners, none of whom made the least impression on him. He noticed that Colonel Braithwaite was more than once in the company of a slightly older but unaccompanied young woman, possibly long known to him from the ease with which they conversed.

“Mrs Sanderson. Major Baker. You come from almost the same neck of the woods, I believe. Mrs Sanderson lives at Market Harborough.”

“My late husband was a Leicestershire man, Major Baker. I come from closer to Bedford.”

“I am from Kettering, ma’am. My father is an ironfounder there.”

She was pleased that he made no attempt to hide his background, though rapidly making it clear that she was in no way interested in him. It seemed possible to Richard that she had ambitions towards the Colonel; she was aware of his inheritance.

“Your brother Reginald’s name was in the lists, I see, Colonel Braithwaite.”

“Yes, poor chap! Unexpected – I had thought him safe behind the lines.”

“His widow will be most upset.”

“Quite possibly so, ma’am, though I do not know that they had lived in the same house these twenty years.”

“Longer than that, I believe, Colonel! She will not have been happy to return from the South of France with the outbreak of war and now will find her income sadly circumscribed.”

“She certainly will, Mrs Sanderson! I can ensure that!”

They exchanged grins and moved towards the floor, leaving Richard quietly entertained. He turned towards the buffet, his glass being empty, and stepped to one side to avoid a young lady walking behind him. He smiled an apology.

“Is that the Victoria Cross, sir?”

“Well, yes, it is, ma’am. I am Major Baker.”

He glanced about to locate a chaperone having seen her fingers were bare – no husband to escort her.

“My Mama will be exchanging scandal with her bosom bows, Major Baker. Far too busy to make an introduction, though she will no doubt be delighted to meet you. I am Primrose Patterson. Lord Elkthorn’s daughter. He is too busy at the War Office to come here tonight. I believe him to be some sort of junior Secretary of State – probably with a large title and a small job. Not the most distinguished of men, poor Papa, but possessed of vast sums of money left by his father, who was.”

Richard took a longer look at the young lady, decided that he liked her. She was a mousy brunette, not the most handsome girl in the ballroom, by some degree, but her bright blue eyes sparkled with wit and intelligence. Besides that, she was ordinarily attractive and dressed with what seemed to him to be some style. It sounded, he realised as if the family had enough money to buy style for her, but she was interesting.

“Should we dance, Miss Patterson?”

“Do you wish to? I had rather talk than gallop about the floor.”

“A drink then?”

“With pleasure, Major. Lemonade, I fear! No choice in that – a young lady must not be fast, you know!”

He suspected he did know and laughed with her. A few minutes and he found himself explaining that he had won his Cross through force of circumstance.

“I was left with the men of my company, such as survived, to bring home and far too many Germans trying to prevent me from doing so. There was no choice other than to fight!”

“I suspect you may be understating the case, Major. Better that than the boasting one hears from too many young gentlemen who have joined and are to defeat the Kaiser single-handed.”

“A good trick that! I shall not stand in their way.”

She laughed and agreed he should not.

“Most of them are cavalry, of course, Major Baker. As such, standing in their way might be unwise. The bulk of them will have bought the tallest chargers and be no more than partly able to control them at the gallop.”

It was Richard’s turn to laugh.

“They will not need to, Miss Patterson. There is no place for the cavalry in trench warfare. They will not so much as see a German, far less charge one.”

“Then what are they to do?”

“Nothing useful! They simply make up the numbers and wait for something to happen. Nothing will. The trench has superseded the cavalry, ma’am. The machine gun makes them irrelevant in the open field. I saw them in August and September – charging over open ground and losing nine men out of ten. The only thing for the cavalry to do is to dismount. They are irrelevant.”

“Will they not come into their own when the trenches are broken, sir?”

Richard shook his head.

“Why should they? A single machine gun behind a hedgerow will destroy a whole troop. The Germans have never less than ten machine guns to the battalion. The cavalry might possibly rout an already broken battalion – but, if it is already in disorganised retreat, what gain is there in that?”

The music ended and Miss Patterson thought she should return to her mother.

“She does occasionally remember that I am here, Major. Do come with me and be introduced – it will give her something to talk about.”

Lady Elkthorn smiled her second-best at the unknown young gentleman bringing her daughter to her. He was, she saw, a major at an early age, but he had only one meagre piece of ribbon to his chest.

“Major Baker, Mama.”

Richard gave a half-bow.

“Your Ladyship.”

“How do you do, Major Baker? Thank you for bringing my daughter to me.”

A smile and Richard accepted his dismissal, spotting Colonel Braithwaite across from him and joining him.

“Who was that you were talking to, Baker?”

“A Miss Patterson, sir. Daughter to Lord Elkthorn. The mother has just given me my marching orders.”

“And is getting her ear well bent by her daughter, by the looks of it! Don’t know them. Family is old enough. The last lord made pots of money out of the Witwatersrand, I am told. Visiting in South Africa and was on the spot when the boom started. Millions, they say, and the family still owns mines there.”

“I gather the present holder of the title is a member of the government – a junior minister of some sort.”

“Be the normal thing – throw twenty thousand into party funds and show willing, ‘services to the State’, that sort of thing, and the viscount is made into an earl after a few years. I see the good mama to be showing apologetic. Any money you like the daughter will manage to bump into you again this evening, Baker. Pretty little thing.”

“Clever with it, sir. Pleasant company.”

They dismissed Miss Patterson as Braithwaite spotted another acquaintance and introduced Richard.

He went down to supper with a somewhat older lady, a Mrs Joyce, on his arm, together with Mrs Sanderson and the Colonel, making a quietly joyous party. They danced again afterwards.

Mrs Joyce made it clear that she regarded Richard as her conquest and ensured that he took the last dance with her and escorted her from the floor and downstairs to her taxi, joining her in the cab as they were going in much the same direction.

He left her apartment much later in the morning, smiling contentedly. Mrs Joyce waved him off, also with a happy grin.

“Don’t call, Dicky dear! I will make contact if I can discreetly. There is a chance my husband will be coming back from France. I might send him to you for lessons, however. He writes that he must consult with the War Office, the cavalry being used insufficiently at the moment. He seems to be of the opinion that they should be brought forward one dark night to make a great charge in the dawn and overrun the Hun in their trenches.”

Richard laughed.

“Can he jump thirty yards of barbed wire entanglement to get into the trenches? If not, he will be as unsuccessful as we were at Neuve Chapelle!”

He slept a few hours and then left his room to wander through Oxford Street to replace items he had lost on campaign. His pocket watch had been smashed at Neuve Chapelle and he wanted something sturdy in steel.

There was literally everything he could imagine on sale in the stores – the war had evidently had no effect on the production of luxuries for the wealthy. He was tempted to purchase some of the special items developed for officers going out to the trenches. There were insulated flasks that would keep drinks hot which struck him as a particularly good idea – but he would not display his good fortune in front of the men and could hardly buy one each for the battalion. He laughed as he saw a display of armour plate, designed to be worn under the army tunic, guaranteed to protect against the machine gun bullet. At a guess there was thirty pounds weight of steel to carry and no protection below the waist or above the shoulders. Not practical for running through a muddy trench or across no-man’s-land. He had doubts as well whether it would actually work – a high velocity round could penetrate a depth of metal.

He bought a petrol lighter of a new model with a windshield that would protect the flame in the open air as well as the watch he needed.

The salesman in Harrods extolled the watch, almost the last of its sort in stock.

“German made, sir. Best quality steel, the case.”

“Krupp quality, no doubt.”

“Exactly, sir. The finest craftsmanship in Europe.”

“So I have noticed.”

The gentleman behind the counter belatedly discovered tact.

“There are a number of English and French watches in our stock, sir…”

“No. This will do me. Don’t wrap it; I shall wear it away. My last watch was lost at the front – possibly destroyed by the makers of this one.”

There was a deal of talk in the papers, Richard mused, but people in civilian life seemed hardly to notice the war. It was having no obvious effects other than to remove numbers of young men from the streets.

He returned to camp the next day, relaxed and made ready for hard work by his venture into High Society. He wondered in passing if he would meet Miss Patterson on the following weekend when he went up to Town again. He hoped as well that he might meet Sally Joyce, or one of her equally attainable friends – she had assured him there were several ladies who were pleased at the freedom the war had made possible.

Chapter Three

“Finished with engines, Chief.”

There was an acknowledgement up the voicepipe and Simon stepped back, taking a final quick glance around the destroyer. They were tied up alongside at Dunkerque, in the inner harbour used by the small ships, the half-section together. A seaman was trotting down the quay from Blackbird, a messenger, the simplest means of communication in harbour.

“Beg pardon, sir. Oil in turn, tomorrow, sir, forenoon. Make up stores, sir. Half-section to sail after dark, sir. Exact time to be given when known, sir.”

“Very good. Thank you.”

The section had developed the method of sending orders by word of mouth, not even written, when at anchor or tied up. It seemed that flag signals could be read by civilians, possibly spies. ‘There was reason to suppose’, said the Senior Naval Officer, that Dunkerque was ‘riddled with spies’.

Spy-catching was a favourite game in the wardrooms, officers habitually peering into the sugar bowl or milk jug to ensure no spy was hiding inside.

Simon called his officers to his cabin, passed the message to them.

“Looks like more of the same, gentlemen. Twenty-four hours in harbour. Is all in hand? Number One?”

Eldridge had only a minor issue.

“Two seamen to go ashore to medical examination, sir. Twist fell and hurt his elbow, sir, when we crossed the current off the outer minefield, the roll took him by surprise.”

Twist was a new hand, eighteen years old, the greenest of the green and not particularly bright. He had been aboard for two weeks. Everything took Twist by surprise.

“What do you think, Number One?”

“He’s broken something, most likely, sir. Won’t be back to us for a while. Put in for a replacement body, sir. The other one is Black, oiler. Toothache and a big lump on his cheek. The dentist will sort him out, poor chap!”

They winced together – the naval dentist was renowned as a butcher, one who would not offer anaesthesia for wanting to ‘know where the pain was’. His favourite quote was often repeated – ‘how else do I know when I have hit the nerve, eh?’

“He’ll be back and needing light duty for a day, Number One. See if you can put his tot aside for him. He’ll be thankful for it when he returns.”

It was illegal to ‘bottle the tot’ and was commonly done in deserving circumstances, though never officially admitted.

“Mr Parrett?”

The sublieutenant had no problems – he rarely did.

“All well, sir.”

“Mr Rees?”

“All in hand, sir. Gun crews are almost where I want them to be.”

Rees was the new Commissioned Gunner, replacing Holdsworth after he started spitting blood, one of the only-too-common consumptions; the cold, wet conditions of the destroyers seemed to destroy the health of anybody with a chest weakness, older men falling most often. Rees demanded ferociously high standards of gunnery, as was now becoming common.

The beginning of the war had disclosed that the Navy’s gunnery was generally poor, especially in capital ships, and there had finally been a concerted push to make an improvement which had trickled down to the boats. The destroyers had smaller guns than their German equivalents and Sheldrake and her class were armed with breech loaders, not quick firers, which required even more of the crews.

“Torpedoes are well up, sir. We have the new gyroscope fitted, sir, the latest model. This one works, they assure me.”

“Needs to, Mr Rees! We cannot afford to have half of our main armament non-functional, possessing only two tubes. Mr Higgins?”

The wartime midshipman was still uncertain in his duties but at least knew the proper words to say.

“All up to scratch, sir. Every hand on forecastle and bridge duty now knows how to fire, load and clear jams on the Lewises, sir.”

“Very good. How are you progressing towards your watchkeeping certificate?”

“Almost there, sir. Not fully up on setting a course, sir.”

“Keep at it. No space for passengers in the boats, Mr Higgins!”

“No, sir.”

The officers left the cabin, all with work to do before they could relax.

Simon made up his written report for the section-leader, Lieutenant-Commander Matthews in Blackbird, hurrying for knowing that he would be called across within the hour.

“All well on Sheldrake, Sturton?”

“Well together, sir. I need a replacement hand, sir. One of the new men fell and seems to have damaged his elbow. Waiting on the medical report but he will not be going to sea this next few days, if at all.”

With a complement of only seventy-two bodies, Sheldrake needed early replacement of any missing man.

“I shall speak to Senior Naval Officer, Dunkerque, Sturton. He was boats for years and knows what’s what. He’ll pull a body off of one of the predreadnoughts – they have no need for the hundreds they keep swanning about their messdecks. Zealandia is in for a week at least, due to her Commander falling out with the Captain; the Admiralty is working out which to replace or whether to sack both. Don’t matter much – both of them are dugouts.”

The old officers, almost all men who had been ‘encouraged’ to retire early before the war, were a laughingstock to the young men. They were Victorian relics, as were their ships, of limited use for coastal bombardments though commonly hopelessly inaccurate, as much due to incompetence as to inadequate guns.

“Could you make use of another mid, Sturton? We have been sent another six wartime specials to do something with. The base as a whole, that is, not specifically the destroyers.”

“Can’t do much with the one I’ve got, sir. No possible way I could find anything for a second to do.”

“Same aboard Blackbird. Two midshipmen would be a nonsense. I had to ask, as you appreciate. How is your youngster fitting in? He is something of a special case from all I gather.”

Matthews was fishing – he was experienced and knew that there was some sort of oddity relating to Sheldrake’s mid. The Commodore of the Harwich Patrol had shown interest in the boy and there had to be a reason for that. The fact that it was being kept secret made it the more intriguing.

Simon had no wish to keep secrets from his immediate commanding officer – that was not a good way to achieve an outstanding report towards his next promotion.

“Not to be talked of, sir, under pain of death or worse… I am saying nothing now. The lad’s name is Higgins. No father to be identified. His mother had friends at the Palace at the turn of the century, in the years before Victoria died.”

“Ah! When Dirty Bertie was at his randiest, we are told. Higgins – can’t get a more unroyal name than that, can one?”

“Exactly, sir. Word is the young man was sent to Sheldrake for being a good ship for early promotion. We were in the newspapers at just the wrong moment, it would seem.”

“Bad luck, that, Sturton! Is he any good?”

“No worse than any other mother’s boy who had been educated at home, had never played a game in his life, took little exercise and was of an impractical turn of mind, sir. I do not despair of him – he is hardening up, slowly, and at least is willing to try. My first thought of him was that he was not fit to shovel shit; I now believe he is fit to shovel shit, sir.”

Matthews roared with laughter.

“A definite improvement, Sturton! Do you think he will ever be fit to do anything more?”

“I hope to be able to sign his watchkeeper’s certificate within a few weeks, sir. What I do with him then, I know not. I ought to give him the forward four inch… Too big a responsibility yet. I will wish to see him in action. Even shooting up a mine would be something. He is so sheltered a boy in his upbringing that I literally am unable to predict what he might do, how he might react. He doesn’t know either.”

“You can’t have him transferred without a good reason, Sturton. Pity. He would be better in many ways aboard a larger ship – he would be less visible, at least. My advice – and I don’t think I can give you much by way of orders here – would be to pile more responsibility onto him. Have you got a boarding party for him to exercise?”

“Polly has the boarders. They know him and he has them working well together. I wouldn’t want to deprive him of the chance they represent. He needs his second stripe, sir. Well fit for it now – come on by leaps and bounds this last few weeks. Getting the medal did a lot for his self-confidence. Six months and he could be given one of these coastal motorboats they are talking about, if they do turn up.”

“I shall note that, Sturton. I am to talk with the Commodore next week – might be given the full section, in which case there will be a new lieutenant-in-command joining the half section and you will cease to be the junior boat.”

That would make little difference, except that he would no longer be the new boy.

“Tonight’s job, Sturton. Up the coast and to the north, skirting Dutch waters and then to drop back to be off Zeebrugge for dawn, coming from the north, hopefully unexpected. There is a feeling that submarines may be leaving the harbour in the first light, submerging when safely offshore. I wouldn’t fancy taking a low-powered craft out through those waters in full darkness. Loaded armour-piercing ideally – except that our four inch don’t have such things!”

“Is there word of depth-bombs, sir?”

“Promised for last month. Certain to come next week… or the one after! Believe them when you see them, Sturton. How we are to carry or launch them, I have not the slightest idea. Nor has the Admiralty.”

“Nothing changes then, sir.”

Matthews stood, ending the interview.

“I’ll get a man across to you at soonest, Sturton. Today, I much hope.”

Simon made his thanks and detoured by way of the markets on his return to Sheldrake. His man, Packer, was buying in company with the officer’s mess steward, both hoping to discover something out of the ordinary run of bully beef and fried eggs for their officers.

“Got some soft cheese, sir. Smells like old socks, sir, so it might be the stuff you likes. The old biddy at the stall said it was ewe’s milk cheese. Didn’t know sheep was in the milking line, sir.”

“No more did I, Packer. What’s that ham over there?”

“Looks good, sir, but the old sod selling wants an arm and a leg for it. I watched when ‘e thought I weren’t looking and the bloody old thief sold to a Frenchie for half what ‘e wanted from me.”

“Generous souls, our allies! Do what you can, Packer.”

“I picked up some good chocolate biscuits and stuff, sir, from the place over there.” Packer nodded to the other side of the marketplace. “Belgian, she is, or so she said. Good stuff.”

“Well done.”

Simon made his way across to the confectioner, bought two slabs of thick chocolate to chew during nights on the bridge when something sweet was appreciated.

“From the little ships, captain?”

He wondered how she knew, nodded that he was.

“Busy ships, going out to sea every night, captain.”

It was none of her business and there was no reason to discuss the movements of his ship… Perhaps she was no more than friendly. He smiled and wandered away, all casually. Turning the corner along the quayside, out of her sight, he remembered the spy mania of the early days of the war, the conviction that every movement of every ship was being watched. He laughed – very silly, then made his way another quarter of a mile inland to the Naval Provosts’ building, an old police station made over to their use.

There was a petty officer sat at a desk just inside the door.

“’Morning PO. Who would I speak to about a suspicious conversation with a stallholder at the market?”

“Trying to pump you for information, sir?”

“I think so, PO.”

“One moment, sir.”

The petty officer stepped across to a door behind him, knocked and entered.

“The Commander will see you, sir.”

Simon introduced himself and explained his suspicions.

“Quite right, Mr Sturton. None of her business and no reason for her to ask you what you are doing. The chocolate seller, you say? Third stall from the café on the corner?”

“Yes, sir. You know her?”

“Buy chocolate from her myself at least twice a week. Good stuff, too. You should try her fudge, Sturton! She reports to a gentleman caller who drops into her kitchens every afternoon, soon after she packs up at the market. He sits in the same café every day and writes a brief note which he drops off in a particular shop towards the outskirts of the town and a farmer who delivers milk early in the morning makes a pickup there and takes it to his place about five miles out.  The farmer sends pigeons out most days. They head east, over the lines. We are watching and waiting to see how he gets new birds, where they come from. I suspect a small boat along the coast. A dinghy meeting up with a local fishing boat and a quick handover. Easier to discover when the delivery is made to the farm, though we are keeping an eye open at sea. We shall take them all in the same sweep when the pigeons arrive. Well spotted! Say nothing for the while. My name is Samways – good old Hampshire family. I will send you a message when we pick them up.”

Simon returned to the ship, expecting never to hear more. There was post waiting on his desk.

Two letters, one slightly scented, one envelope marked ‘House of Lords’.

He opened the second, suspecting what it would tell him.

His uncle announced that he was now Lord Perceval, the old gentleman having rapidly succumbed in the ‘sanatorium’ to which he had been forcibly retired. The family solicitors would be contacting him on an early day regarding the entail on the Perceval lands. If, as his uncle very much hoped, he was willing, he should sign the appropriate documents to break the entail and enable the agricultural lands to be sold. His uncle also congratulated him on his twenty-first birthday, due in the immediate future.

He wrote a quick note, apologising for its brevity, being under sailing orders, offering formal commiserations on his grandfather’s death and confirming his willingness to cooperate on the entail as soon as he was twenty-one and legally able to sign the documents. The farmland was a nuisance, no more, to the modern family, he said. That done, he sat back and opened the other, thicker, letter.

As he had suspected, his correspondent was Miss Alice Parrett, Polly’s most attractive youngest sister. She apologised for addressing him uninvited, had thought he might be lonely in his cabin and might enjoy a letter from a friend. There was little to say, but she said it at some length, much hoping that he had enjoyed his stay at her parent’s house and might wish to return.

He had not asked her parents’ permission to correspond with her and could not, properly, write a reply. He spoke to Polly later and told him that he had received the friendliest letter from his sister and had much enjoyed reading it.

“I shall tell her when I write home, sir. You are always welcome at our house, of course, sir, having nowhere to go on leave. My mother bade me tell you that she would be happy to see you again.”

Simon laughed and did not explain why. He had suspected that Alice’s mother had noticed her daughter’s feelings and had strongly supported them.

“Next leave, Polly. We must be due a week sometime soon.”

Sailing orders came as they left the oiling berth. The half-section was to set out on a course for Harwich in daylight and then turn up coast when well offshore, out of sight of watchers in the port.

“Packer, go across to the chocolate stall and buy some more for the cabin. You can tell the old biddy that we are ordered back to Harwich, don’t know when we will be back again to get some more. Pick up some fudge while you’re there – it’s supposed to be good.”

A seaman arrived from Zealandia, brought across by a very flash boat, shining bright and much decorated with white ropework. The midshipman in the stern was also bright and shiny; he bumped hard against the side when pulling in, having left his orders to the oarsmen too late.

“All show and no performance, Number One. Says much about the ship.”

“Word is that a lot of the predreadnoughts are to be sent out to the Med, sir, to this business at Gallipoli. Seems to be a complete cock-up, from all I hear.”

“It will only get worse with those ships added to the mix. Not to worry, as long as they don’t send us!”

Eldridge agreed – he had no wish to go to what seemed to be a failing campaign. He wanted promotion and being involved in a defeat was not the obvious way forward.

“I shall see what we have got, sir. Mr Parrett is in process of reaming out the mid in the boat for damaging our paintwork. Enjoying himself, I suspect! I shall speak to the new hand.”

The First Lieutenant was responsible for allocating duty stations to the crew; he needed to know, and remember, the place of every man aboard and to shift them as they gained skill or showed incompetent.

The new body was a man of at least thirty, well tattooed and tanned – he was an old hand and should have been far too valuable to have been sent to another ship. Eldridge was immediately suspicious, sniffing for rum or gin, expecting him to be a drunkard.

“Smith, sir. AB.”

Eldridge’s suspicions rose. Too many ‘Smiths’ had chosen the name on hurried enlistment, one step ahead of the shore police. Add to that, he was able-bodied – experienced as a seaman and valuable among the mass of wartime recruits. Zealandia must have some nefarious reason for getting rid of him.

“What’s your experience, Smith?”

“Sixteen years, sir, since a boy. Ten years in the boats, sir. Got drafted to Zealandia last year when she got sent to sea and needed useful hands to add to the Reserve mob what she got. Been wanting to get out since I got on, sir. No ship for a seaman, sir! Known the Buffer these ten years, sir. Put across for getting too old for the boats, he was, sir. Got the chance in a hurry and he volunteered me for Sheldrake, sir, and the First is ashore and so’s the Commander and there wasn’t nobody to say no, sir.”

Eldridge sighed in relief.

“Welcome aboard, Smith. You are here as a replacement for a new hand who injured himself falling over. Green as grass! You will not stay in his duties for longer than it takes me and the coxswain to rewrite the watch lists.”

Smith nodded and smiled and looked about at the ship, ventured a comment.

“Everything up together nice and taut, sir. Way it should be. Got a good name, Sheldrake. Glad to be here, sir.”

The comment verged on the impertinent, was the sort of thing an old, experienced and very competent hand could get away with.

“Good of you to say so, Smith. Report to the coxswain.”

Eldridge returned to the bridge.

“Could be a good man, sir. Boats for years and managed to fiddle his way off Zealandia in the absence of senior officers to overrule the Buffer, an old acquaintance. Able and looks as if he deserves the rating. Let him prove himself and then put him to work directly to the coxswain with an eye to petty officer soon, sir.”

“We could use another PO, Number One. Put him up quickly if he makes the grade. Set him to work with Higgins, if possible, teach the boy the basics of seamanship and boat handling.”

“Hard labour, sir?”

“We have to do all we can for the boy, Number One. No choice. What is he doing at the moment?”

“Off watch and getting his head down, I think, sir. He needs the sleep. He’s still not used to hard-lying. He’s back for Second Dog and then Middle Watch and Forenoon, but we will be at ‘All Hands’ for most of the night, sir, so he needs his sleep now.”

“You are right, Number One. I would like to work him more but he won’t be able to handle it. Is he competent with a rifle?”

“Unknown, sir.”

“He must have handled a three-o-three in his training, surely… Ask him when he surfaces. If he knows the basics, add him to Polly’s boarders for the experience.”

They shook their heads in unison – trying to find work for a less than wholly able mid was not an easy task on a small ship.

“Orders for tonight, Number One. Line astern on passage, as normal. Full blackout. When we make the turn to come back into the Belgian coast, we shift into line abreast at a thousand yards, watching primarily to port but keeping an eye out to starboard as well, as goes without saying!”

“Tell the lookouts we are submarine hunting, sir?”

“No. They are to keep their eyes peeled for anything and everything. Too big a risk, telling them to look for one thing in particular. They might not notice something that ain’t what they’re looking for. Make sure the sharpest-eyed are to port, searching inshore. All guns manned. Tubes ready but no need for a full crew waiting by them. A man to each Lewis.”

“Higgins?”

“I hoped you might not ask that question, Number One. Now I have to make a decision! It has to be yes. If I say he can’t be trusted at action stations then I had as well dismiss him from the ship. Hope, Number One!”

Simon did not say whether he hoped there would be no action or if he hoped that Higgins would show well.

Packer returned with his shopping bag.

“Gave us a full one of they kilograms of her fudge, so she did, sir, for the price of a half. Kept us on talking there for a good quarter hour… Told ‘er what we was all posted back to Harwich and expecting to be sent north to Scapa, sir, being as I had to say summat. Real interested, so she was, in all I was saying about the boat.”

“Too much interested, do you think, Packer?”

“Might be she’s just nosey, sir, one of they what wants to know everybody’s business. Could be.”

“And might not be. I spoke to the provosts yesterday, thinking she was asking too many questions.”

Packer showed satisfied.

“Thought as much, sir. Don’t set right, all she was asking about. Pity. Good fudge, sir – I bought some for meself.”

“As good an obituary as any, Packer.”

“What, do you reckon they’ll shoot ‘er, sir?”

“Might do. No way of telling. If they don’t, she’ll go inside for a good few years.”

“Serve ‘er right, daft old besom! Shouldn’t get involved, should she?”

“A refugee, no way of going home for years. Perhaps she needed money. Her bad luck. Not my business!”

They sailed and forgot all possible spies, concerned only to make a good offing before they turned north, well outside the range of any telescope on shore.

Simon slept till halfway through the Middle Watch, a full five hours, longer than he had achieved in a single stretch in the previous month. He did not know that he felt better for such indulgence when he came up to the bridge.

“Due to make our turn to course in thirty minutes, sir.”

“Very good, Mr Parrett. All hands for the Morning Watch. Give them another two hours, those who are off watch now.”

They came onto the course to bring them towards Zeebrugge from the northeast and set themselves into formation, one thousand yards apart at a steady, near silent, eight knots. The night was black, moonless and almost windless, the sea calm.

“Perfect firing conditions, Number One, except that we can’t see a damned thing. We are the inshore boat and should be about four cables distant from the inner shoals. Maybe!”

“I have doubled lookouts, sir.”

“Put hands to the searchlight, Number One, ready to strike an arc at my shout. Gun crews ready. Man the Lewises, Mr Higgins!”

The boy stumbled to the port twin Lewis and proceeded to load and cock the guns by feel alone, making good time.

“I had him working blindfold during the week, sir.”

“Well done, Number One.”

They waited in silence. Cocoa came round and they sipped thankfully, watchful and hoping.

“Bridge! Light at sea level, port bow, looks close, sir.”

It would be almost impossible to gauge range in the conditions.

The bridge party stared and picked up the faint glow, occasionally showing more strongly, thought it was moving, on more or less the same course.

“It’s a pipe, Number One. Helmsman in a small boat puffing away at a tobacco pipe.”

“Fisherman, sir?”

“Night fishing is banned along this coast. The Germans won’t permit it. Pilot boat, perhaps, acting as a guide for a ship of some sort, but they wouldn’t be able to see it…”

“Might be listening, sir. They say that submarines have hydrophones that can pick up the sound of ship’s engines.”

“I wouldn’t fancy that trick, Number One. Trying to follow a small boat by the sound of its engine and navigating through shoals, following its turns by noise alone.”

Eldridge considered that possibility, decided it was not a game he would wish to play. Simon chose not to wait to discover what was happening.

“Mr Parrett! Boarders to the bows, with rifles. Ready to take whatever the small craft may be. Full speed. Bring us onto her, coxswain.”

Sheldrake surged forward, overtook the small boat in seconds.

They heard Parrett yelling ‘boarders away’ as they came alongside.

“Theatrical, sir?”

“Touch of the Long John Silvers, Number One!”

“He does like his adventure stories, sir. Mr Midshipman Easy and such, you know.”

“Seems to have done him little harm…”

Simon was interrupted by a strangled squawk from the boat.

“Sounds as if they have taken a prisoner, sir.”

They heard Parrett’s voice.

“Coming aboard, sir!”

Four of the boarders appeared over the bow, turned to heave up a faintly visible figure.

Parrett climbed aboard and ran to the bridge.

“Small motorboat, sir. Two men, not uniformed. Boat is armed, sir. Some sort of foreign light machine gun on a tripod, sir. Both taken captive, sir, though the man on the gun was well thumped with a rifle butt.”

“Can’t play with machine guns, Mr Parrett. Well done. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Neither prisoner appeared to be conscious.

“Take them below where we can shine a light on them.”

The pair were bounced quickly down the companionway and dropped on the deck outside Simon’s cabin.

“Check the blackout then give us a light.”

A minute and a torch flicked on.

The one face was covered in blood from a cut opened up on the top of the head. The other looked familiar.

“Take his hat off.”

Simon stared at the Provost Commander, Samways.

“Mr Parrett, were there any pigeons in the boat?”

“Not that I saw, sir.”

“Perhaps we interrupted him before he made the pick up. Sit this officer in my chair, if you please. Do what you can for his man.”

Simon returned to the bridge without further explanation.

“Number One, see if you can bring the boat aboard. Might as well salvage something from this mess.”

Eldridge ran to obey, knowing only that something was badly wrong.

Parrett came up a few minutes later.

“The one bashed on the head has died, sir. The other man, sir, has the papers of a British naval officer tucked away in his wallet.”

“Commander Samways. Naval Intelligence, I must imagine. I met him in Dunkerque before we sailed. Rather unfortunate, the whole business.”

Simon signalled Blackbird at first light, as soon as it could be seen that there were no submarines in the area.

“Sheldrake intercepted small boat in darkness. Two occupants, one killed in capture. Need preserve secrecy.”

He received the reply to close Blackbird and send a boat, himself in it.

“What happened, Sturton?”

A quick and simple explanation.

“Annoying! No fault of yours. Intelligence won’t love you, even so. Make full speed to Dunkerque, report to Senior Naval Officer at earliest – get your story in quick! You will have my full support.”

The SNO listened and was inclined to be amused.

“Bloody Intelligence playing cops and robbers in the darkness, Sturton! Pity about the man who died. Has Samways said who it was?”

“No, sir. Mr Samways has yet to regain consciousness. My boarding party was very efficient in the dark, sir.”

“Can’t play games in a small boat at night, Sturton! Have you had him taken to hospital?”

“Yes, sir. Thought that was best. Spoke to the matron, sir – she’s from a naval family and is on our side. Has Samways tucked away in a single room, with a guard on the door, out of sight.”

“Well done, young man! Good thinking that! Keep everything quiet. I shall speak to him myself as soon as he is fit to have visitors. What’s this about a ‘foreign machine gun’ on his boat?”

“My Gunner says it’s a Madsen Gun, sir. Light machine gun used by the German Army but made in Denmark. He tells me there’s an English factory as well but it only sells overseas as the Army didn’t want them.”

The SNO made a note that the small boat was armed with a weapon not used by British forces and hence evidence that it was probably enemy.

“Very good, Sturton. I shall send my report upstairs, of course. It will say that you acted perfectly correctly and will demand to know why Intelligence chose not to inform me of an operation taking place in my patch. What does the bloody man expect, sailing in the dark in an unmarked boat in an area where my destroyers are ever active? Damned fool deserves to get a headache! Lost one of his men, too, through his slackness.”

Simon was much heartened by that reaction. He presumed that Samways had in some way offended the SNO on a previous occasion. The SNO now had the chance to do Samways down and would take it happily. Another naval feud! He returned to Sheldrake and called Parrett to the cabin.

“SNO says you acted properly and offers his commendation, Polly. He is sending a report to the Admiralty that will demand action against Samways for launching a private operation in our waters without first informing us to look out for him. He hinted that he might be held responsible for the death of one of his men. Not your responsibility in any way, Polly! You saw a machine gun and its crew and took proper action to secure the weapon. Well done. Perfectly correct behaviour on your part.”

“Still, sir… It’s one of our men dead at my hands.”

“No it ain’t, Polly! Not at all! The man died due to the unacceptable slackness of his commanding officer. You cannot be responsible for Samways’ incompetence. Don’t worry yourself about that – it ain’t your fault that another officer is a fool.”

Matthews brought Blackbird in and listened to all that had happened and agreed.

“Your youngster did the right thing, Sturton. I’ll keep you posted on all that happens.”

Simon and Polly were called across to Blackbird next day, found Matthews in a particularly good mood.

“Signal from the Admiralty, through the SNO, gentlemen. Sublieutenant Parrett to Lieutenant with immediate effect. Congratulations, Polly! Actions in waters off Zeebrugge in best traditions of the service. All the normal verbiage besides, blah, blah, blah… You are to remain in Sheldrake. Well done. Three months or so and we shall see about putting you up in the world, Polly. You need some experience in the rank first. Samways, you will be interested to know, has been discharged from hospital and posted to Scapa Flow where he will play his part in maintaining security for the Grand Fleet. He’s welcome to that! It’s not a demotion – the opposite on paper – but it’s a backwater in terms of his trade. A new man came in this morning and has taken up every identified member of the spy ring without waiting to arrest the pigeons as well. All very tidy.”

Useful to Matthews as well, Simon appreciated. One of his boats had been part of a highly successful operation against an espionage network – obviously with his knowledge and approval. It would look well on his record of service.

“Right, gentlemen. We are to continue operations against submarines off the Belgian coast. It is clear that they are operating out of Zeebrugge and Ostend and likely that they are active in lesser harbours along the coast towards Holland. It is now suspected that they may be putting to sea with an escort of some sort to protect them until they reach a point where it is practical to submerge – reasonably distant from shoal water and away from the more vigorous currents. We are to take appropriate action.”

A vague order and one that meant something must be done but the senior officer did not know what.

“Passing the buck, sir?”

“Just that, naturally. We have a report of ships available in the two ports. That will give an indication of what we might expect.”

“Nothing new and large, sir. Old gunboats and new destroyers and merchant shipping armed as auxiliary cruisers, perhaps?”

“Pretty much, Sturton. Large steam trawlers mostly, or so it would seem. A strong possibility that they are sneaking through Dutch waters – infringing neutrality which we simply must not do. It’s not merely officially forbidden, Sturton. We are not to enter neutral waters other than in a sinking condition and seeking rescue. Court martial for any other infringement – and a certainty of being broken. Chase a Hun through Dutch waters and you are finished. End of story!”

It was rare to receive orders that gave no leeway at all. Having received them, they were to be obeyed, in full.

“Are the Dutch aware of the Germans’ habits, sir?”

“They are. Another year and they will have conscripted and trained a sufficient army to defend their borders. They are building coastal defence ships and are offering quiet cooperation with us. They will not go to war. They will take action to keep their waters clear as soon as they can take the risk. As it stands, they are angry but dare not act. We must keep them on our side. It is the case now that they have several thousands of our men interned, soldiers who crossed the border rather than be taken prisoner when Antwerp fell. Many of these men are sent back to Britain every month – repatriated because of illness, officially. Whenever the Germans breach their neutrality, more men are put on the next ship. We must never offend the Dutch, Sturton!”

Simon took away the reports on German vessels present in Belgian ports, study material for the wardroom.

Chapter Four

“Adams, you are to report to the auxiliary merchant cruiser, Fanny Brown, to act as navigating officer. She is part of the anti-submarine flotilla, newly formed in Malta. Four vessels, three trawlers carrying the new depth bombs and Fanny Brown herself equipped with a hydrophone – a device for hearing sounds underwater and recording their bearing. It is an experimental squadron, hoped to bring an end to the menace of the underwater boat. Senior captain is Commander Hamworthy who is captain of Fanny Brown, a reservist who has been recalled to the Navy in his current rank. There are naval gun crews under command of a Commissioned Gunner. The flotilla will base itself on Malta.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Good. Off you go. I shall not expect to see you making use of the onshore facilities for officers, Adams.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Christopher made a formal about turn and marched out of the admiral’s cabin, all done very precisely.

The Admiral’s Secretary, a paymaster commander, followed him.

“There is mail for you, Adams. I have it in my office.”

Christopher was not looking forward to correspondence. The letter must be from his father – he had no close friends who might write to him.

“There will be a boat for you in fifteen minutes, Adams. You may read your letter here.”

The Secretary’s obvious sympathy did not make anything easier.

His father had found little to say to his disgraced son but was not overtly condemning.

‘Your brother has spoken to me of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding your fall from grace. I have made my displeasure clear to him. Your allowance will continue in its present sum. If possible, you will be sent to the Far East. You may correspond with me and I hope to hear of plans for your future at the end of the war. A return to Britain is not recommended.’

It could have been far worse; Christopher had expected to be cast off as no longer relevant to the family. At least, he had an income to live on.

He paced out onto the deck of the flagship and found the duty lieutenant.

“Boat for Fanny Brown, I believe. Do you know which she is?”

Much of the Mediterranean fleet was in harbour, tied up or at anchor, and he could not spot an obvious armed merchant cruiser. Most of the auxiliary cruisers were big ships, fifteen thousand ton Atlantic passenger liners converted to war.

“Outer harbour, Adams. Her flotilla is at anchor with her. Good luck! Your trunks have been sent off before you, direct from Connaught.”

The unknown lieutenant was taking pains to hide his laughter; Christopher’s spirits, not already high, sank even further. He ran down to the boat, a steam picket launch, and stood next to the midshipman in the stern, watched silently as he cast off and headed to the far corner of the harbour.

“Somewhat out of sight, Fanny Brown?”

“Yes, sir.”

The midshipman showed no desire to speak to the pariah – he had heard that Adams had put up a black and wanted nothing to do with him. He neither knew nor cared what his story might be, simply wished to avoid contamination, particularly with his own promotion soon due. He did not wish to be seen in friendly converse with one of the Navy’s black sheep.

The picket boat settled on course for a cluster of merchant shipping, a dozen or so of medium size tramp steamers and mixed passenger and freight carriers. The largest of them, perhaps four thousand tons, had three deepwater trawlers moored close astern.

“Is that her?”

“Yes, sir.”

An oldish three island freighter with stern accommodation for a score or so of passengers. Two funnels, with a trickle of black smoke showing. She carried guns on the forecastle and amidships, abaft the bridge. She had been painted grey, looked uneasy in the colour.

Christopher said no more – she was likely to be more comfortable than Shetland Star and there would be a wardroom of sorts. It was all he could hope for.

They came alongside and he ran up the ladder and saluted and enquired of the sentry – a naval rating – where he should go.

“Captain is ashore, sir. Gunner has harbour watch, sir.”

Christopher turned towards the bridge, was stopped by a shout.

“Over here!”

The call came from forward, the starboard gun, a four point seven quickfirer.

The crew was in position, had been at drill. An old officer, well into his forties, stepped briskly across.

“Barclay, Commissioned Gunner.”

“Adams, Lieutenant.”

Formalities exchanged and salutes given, as was proper in view of the lower deck, they walked across to the gun.

“Two four point sevens, Mr Adams, Mark IV, one either side, and two twelve pounders aft. A pair of three pounders to the poop and two old Maxims on the bridge. Two petty officers and four layers, making up the naval party on the guns; training up reservists to make up the number. The steward is a regular. A Torpedoman and two ratings making up the hydrophonists. Chief petty officer and eight naval hands as seamen. Yeoman of the Signals is a regular. The rest of the crew apart from the Captain are all merchant navy, the officers Volunteer Reserve, the originals who came with the ship. Their senior is a lieutenant-commander, making you third ranking in the ship. With you here as Navigator, we are ready for sea. Captain is ashore picking up final orders.”

“What of the trawlers?”

“Steel hulled. Fairly new. German boats taken last year and bought into the service. Crews are a mixture of regulars and reservists, each under command of a reserve skipper brought in from the fishing. They have a four inch QF each in the bows and a pair of Vickers and the bomb releasing gear at the stern. The bombs are set to go off at a hundred feet under the water. Up to us to tell them where to drop.”

It was likely that they would be more obedient to command than the hired boats.

Barclay led Christopher to the stern and into the wardroom, called to the chief steward.

“Mr Adams, Parkin.”

“Sir. Trunks are to your cabin, sir, and your steward, Micallef, has them in hand. Mess fees, sir, are paid monthly or quarterly as the officer desires.”

Christopher handed over twelve pounds for the three months, not the smallest fees he had known but a half of the rate for a battleship.

“Dress?”

“Dress of the day, sir. Never full dress. Mess dress on special occasions only.”

Barclay grinned and commented that the ex-Merchant Navy officers simply did not possess formal attire.

“They have service dress and that’s it, Adams. Fanny Brown was not an ocean liner where the officers preside over dinner tables in the first-class lounge. Almost all of the officers came across with the ship, last year, glad to, mostly, for naval pay being higher than they were used to.”

Another set of circumstances to fit into. Christopher shrugged – beggars could not be choosers. That was one relief, in fact, to know that he would not be a beggar, reduced to penury and earning a living. His father would continue to pay him his five hundred and his tailor’s bills, not that they would be a future concern.

He allowed the Chief Steward to guide him to his cabin.

His own steward, Micallef, was there – a Maltese, as was to be expected in the Mediterranean where the people of Malta had an effective right to serve the Navy. He dipped his hand in his pocket, came up with two half crowns, the normal greeting for a new steward. Micallef would earn his keep and at most a pound a month; five shillings was a week’s money. It would be repeated at Christmas and Easter and on any other occasion when he offered special service.

“Don’t unpack the formal dress, Micallef. No need for it. I drink tea, not coffee. One sugar.”

That was all the steward needed to know. He would pick up his master’s habits over time.

Christopher changed out of his reporting uniform, put on working dress, effectively the same but older and worn. It served to announce that he did not intend to stand back and watch while others did the work.

Lunch was fresh fish, well cooked and presented. It made a change from the pedestrian meals on Connaught.

Captain Hamworthy was piped aboard and retired to his cabin. Christopher was called in ten minutes later.

Hamworthy was fifty and had been merchant marine for twenty years, leaving the Navy after a contretemps with a particular captain, involving that captain’s wife. He had a grin on his face, seemingly a permanent fixture.

“Adams – I am told that you are in disgrace. Been there meself in me time. Couldn’t give a bugger! I need a navigator who can keep his head, which you may be. Saw action at the Falkland Islands and recently with Connaught, as well as some wild melee with a bunch of trawlers. Did Sturdee make a cock of the Falkland Islands like the rumours insist?”

“Of the first one hundred and twenty shells fired by Invincible, at twenty thousand yards and decreasing, three hit. In the second part of the action, at five thousand yards, Scharnhorst was landing two for our one. Luckily, they had expended all of their armour-piercing on Good Hope.”

“Don’t hear mention of that in the newspapers!”

“No. Other than that, he fought an uninspired action, allowing Von Spee to repeatedly blind us with our own smoke.”

“Explains why there has been so much emphasis on gunnery practice these past few weeks. Every other order from the Admiralty has related to gunnery.”

“Needed, sir. Trouble is, it’s expensive and destructive of the gun barrels. They cannot fire too many live rounds and these simulated firings cannot match the real thing. The Scott spot firer, or whatever it is – all very well, but it can’t give the feeling of a broadside shaking the whole ship and throwing everything off its setting. On Invincible, firing lefts then rights, four twelve inch together, the ship was thrown about like a toy boat. Take a Queen Elizabeth firing those fifteen inchers, damned near twice the propellant charge, the crew will be deafened and shaken till their bones rattle. Bound to effect their efficiency, and to put the Barr and Strouds off – delicate range-takers and huge shocks don’t mix, sir.”

“Good thought! Won’t effect us, except inasmuch as the depth bombs will make a noise and one hell of a concussion. The hydrophones are not the most robust of instruments. One hundred pounds charge, the depth bombs – a major shock wave through water. Needs be, of course, to bash a submarine.”

“How are we to go about the job, sir?”

“Find out. That’s our function. We don’t know. All I can think of is to head out into the Ionian Sea and hopefully put ourselves across the routes submarines must take from Austrian harbours towards the Aegean. Sit down and listen and chase anything we happen to hear. Needs precise navigation so that we know where we are and where the sub might be aiming for. Full record of our track and know our position to the inch at all times. Keep an eye on the trawlers and record their expenditure of depth bombs. Apart from that, there are only the three of us with naval experience, and I’m out of date, been pushing a liner across the Atlantic since Victoria died. More like running a London bus than commanding a ship. The captain’s table more important to the career than seamanship… Still, always a young widow or two or a lonely wife going out to join her husband, you know, Adams! Some compensations in the merchant service that you don’t get in the Navy!”

Christopher concluded that his captain was not entirely a gentleman. He did seem to have enjoyed his existence in his less circumscribed way of life.

“Yes, sir. Sailing when, sir?”

“Dawn tomorrow. Coal is at full and stores are up. Barclay is half-way satisfied with his gunners. I am waiting the reports from the trawlers, that’s all. I intend to inspect them later today. Should keep them up to scratch. At least they are naval boats, not hired civilians. I know you were aboard the Star flotilla when they caught a Turk, Adams?”

He described the action, making much of the accuracy and speed of the civilians’ shooting.

“Let’s hope ours will be as good. Check your department and inform me of any shortages before we sail, Adams.”

That gave him two hours effectively if the captain was to be informed and to have time to do anything.

There was a chartroom and it had charts in it, mostly up to date, those for the Mediterranean recently issued in Malta and fully corrected. The flagship probably had spares for issue as needed, and a mob of midshipmen and sublieutenants to do the donkey work, needing something to keep them busy.

The compasses worked and there was a sufficiency of pens and pencils and parallel rulers.

He was able to report all ready and then to sit down and establish his courses for leaving harbour. It was no more than the familiar drudgery; it made him feel useful.

“Dining ashore tonight, Adams. Will you come?”

“Better I should not, sir. I am not to be seen in the officers’ accommodation ashore, and that is probably extended to the better hotels.”

Hamworthy laughed.

“Good old Grey Funnel Line – once the Navy has a down on you, it’s thorough! Remain aboard while in Malta. We will probably call at Mudros. Might get a shore run in there.”

“Not bloody likely, sir! It’s a dirty, filthy, diseased shit-heap of a place! Worse than the back-slums of Alexandria!”

The Egyptian port was renowned as a hell-hole outside of its protected rich quarter.

“My God! Truly?”

“It is sickening, sir. Twenty thousand and more of soldiers and sailors dumped on a tiny fishing port with two wells and nothing else. They are dying like flies there! Water all comes in by tanker from Cyprus and Egypt – that means it’s contaminated before it gets there. No fresh food. Hot as the King of Hell’s back door. The bay is no more than a cesspool. A death trap!”

“Right… No dining ashore at Mudros. No calling at Mudros if it can be avoided. Best go down to Alex if we need to restore our vital powers. Led south by a wily submarine, you know.”

“Of course, sir. Our pursuit was unbroken and damned unlucky to be fruitless.”

“Precisely, Adams!”

Such a breach of regulations would never even have occurred to Christopher in his previous incarnation as one of the gilded youths of the service. Now, it seemed moderately amusing.

“Have we a searchlight, sir? Submarines must recharge their batteries on the surface at night, I believe.”

“Nothing more than a signalling Aldis. I shall make the request. Could be useful.”

They breakfasted well and not too early. It seemed that sailing at dawn could be interpreted loosely on board Fanny Brown.

“Dress ship for leaving harbour, sir?”

“No. Too few hands, Mr Adams. Course?”

Christopher gave the commands for leaving Valetta and handed over to the First Lieutenant, Hamworthy retiring to his cabin as soon as they were safely out to sea.

Lieutenant-Commander Ephraim was heavily bearded and spoke with a slight accent. Enquiry disclosed that he was Canadian, had been working the Atlantic run since boyhood, had made master of a mixed passenger and freight carrier when war broke out and he volunteered for naval service.

“Trained for a month and then posted to Fanny Brown, standing by her in the dockyard while she was converted and then came out with her to Malta. Sat here for two months doing nothing until they decided on this game and sent the captain aboard to command the three trawlers as well as this ship. Too senior a posting for me. With luck, I shall get something of my own next year.”

Christopher doubted it. Ephraim did not sound exactly as was expected of a naval officer – he would not be trusted with any large ship. He might be given a clapped-out old wreck like the sloops Connaught had cared for. Nothing more than that – which was more than he himself could ever expect.

No gain to self-pity! Think of something useful.

“How do the hydrophones work, sir?”

“Fitfully, Adams! At very low speed, the operator sits with headphones over his ears, turning a sound receiver of some sort, in a cage under the bows. He listens for any noise out of the ordinary. Most of the time all he hears are fish farts. If there is a submarine, he will pick up the sound of her propeller, the electric motors being silent. Having got a sound, he will rotate his receiver left and right to establish on what bearing the sound is strongest. The captain will then turn the ship as he directs and close the distance, alerting the trawlers the while. If all goes well, the hydrophone operator will conn Fanny Brown directly over the submarine and will hear the noise die away behind him. Then he gives the word to the captain who will order the trawlers to drop their bombs. The operator takes off his headset so that the bombs will not deafen him and then he returns to listening. As soon as he hears anything, he starts the chase again. Odds are, you see, that the bombs will not fall close enough to destroy the submarine, only to wound it. Pressure hulls are strong and the bombs are not huge… It is envisaged that three or four attacks may be necessary.”

“That sounds rather hopeful, sir.”

“It sounds bloody unlikely to me, Adams! Picking up the sound once will be lucky. Getting it again after the first attack will be more than fortunate.”

Christopher was inclined to agree.

There were four merchant navy reserve officers who shared watchkeeping between them, leaving Christopher to deal with all course changes and spend such time on the bridge as he wished. It was a pleasantly relaxed life, the more so because they knew nothing of his history or his scandal and welcomed him into the wardroom, happy to have another man to talk to. They were not gentlemen in the naval sense, but all were professional seamen and had sailed most of the world’s oceans between them and knew how to talk, to keep a wardroom relaxed and within reason convivial.

None of the officers had seen action and they knew that Christopher had. They wanted to know what it was like and persuaded him to tell them. The fact that he had been dumped upon a flotilla of minesweepers escaped them.

“Basically, it was a matter of speed first, getting the guns into action quickly, and then accurate shooting. Compare it to the shambles at the Falkland Islands where Invincible could not hit the Germans for toffee! Nine tenths of the rounds fired were misses. The Germans had fired off all their armour-piercing, which is why Invincible eventually came out on top, with the aid of Carnarvon. Very slack!”

They were suitably shocked.

“What do we do if we have the bridge in action?”

“Give the guns a clear line of sight. Keep an eye out for torpedoes and try to offer a stable gun platform. Close the range if it is safe to do so. Have no hesitation in running from anything that is too big for us to handle. If we tangle with something faster than us, then get in as close as can be and ram if needs must. The Austrians have a few fast but comparatively lightly armed cruisers which could be difficult to deal with. What is Fanny Brown’s speed, by the way?”

They looked at each other and showed reticent. Eventually one of them admitted to ten knots, with a following wind.

“The engines were never up to much, Adams, and she is twenty years old now. The owners had her built to their own specifications – more important that she should be cheap to run than that she should make any speed. She was expected to carry grain to Liverpool, mostly, from Canada. Westward, typically she was empty apart from a few passengers. Speed didn’t matter. More often than not, we took her at the most economical rate of seven knots.”

“That’s why they chose her for the hydrophones, I presume, Helmand. They demand low speed work.”

“Yes, Adams.”

“Do you work the naval watches?”

“No. Never have. Four of us and we work eight hour watches, so we rotate days and nights naturally. Makes more sense than four hours at a time. Just one of us on watch and the captain or the chief mate when necessary. We have four apprentices as well, working with us and learning the trade. Helmsmen are on four hour watches, so as not to get tired. Your signalman stands watch as he sees fit. He has trained up two of the crew to read flag signals. No wireless set.”

“So, if we catch a submarine, we cannot inform any other ships of its presence and possible course.”

They nodded, unwilling to commit themselves to actual words.

“Crew sufficient to man all of the guns?”

“Not really, Adams. The four big guns are on the broadside, two and two, so they need just two crews between them. The machine guns have two men apiece and the three pounders are on the poop and can fire astern and to either beam, more or less, and so they have four men each.”

“Twenty-three hands to the guns?”

“And their ammunition parties, for the big guns, that is. Another dozen of them. The three pounders have big ready use lockers and the Vickers have spare belts made up and hanging in the wheelhouse.”

“Not really in the trade of fighting warships, it might seem.”

They laughed, uneasily.

“Thin-skinned and slow – we are hardly in the business of fighting at all.”

“We need be – we fly the naval ensign and are painted grey. That makes us a warship in any other vessel’s eyes. How do we stand for small arms?”

“I don’t actually think we have any, Adams, except perhaps a revolver in the captain’s cabin. Always have the one in case any of the crew go mad and have to be put down.”

“No boarding parties, it would seem!”

Christopher spoke to Barclay later, confirming that they had no rifles aboard.

“No. I put in an indent for them but nothing had turned up when we sailed.”

Ephraim was close to, overheard the conversation.

“I’ll speak to the captain. We need something in case we have to board a sub we have disabled.”

That seemed rather ambitious. They agreed politely.

Captain Hamworthy was not pleased. He wondered whether they should return to Valetta, decided that might be to show unwilling to serve.

“Speak to the trawlers, Mr Ephraim, see if they have anything aboard.”

Hans Heine, senior of the three, had two rifles; Kiel had four; Dorothea reported a dozen crates sent aboard immediately before sailing and unopened, possibly small arms.

“Bloody fools could have told us!”

Fanny Brown slowed for Dorothea to come alongside and tranship the crates. The merchant navy crews made quick work of dropping a cargo net from the larger ship and loading the crates in and winching them aboard.

“Surprising set of skills your people have, sir.”

Ephraim nodded, a grin splitting the black beard.

“Used to it, Adams. They were used to load a score or two of crates of whiskey at Halifax and drop them off to inshore drifters off the Mersey, so they tell me. Made their pocket money for a run ashore in Liverpool. Every man aboard would see something in his wallet.”

“Not a naval habit, sir. Useful set of skills, however!”

Barclay set to opening the crates and sending their contents down to his workshop.

“Eighty service rifles, Mr Ephraim. Two hundred rounds apiece. Pouches and webbing belts. Spare clips. Bayonets, eighty again. Cutlasses. Also eighty.”

“Cutlasses.”

“Yes, sir. The Admiralty is a firm believer in the cutlass, sir. Comes of reading pirate stories, sir.”

“Jolly good show, old chap. I shall ask the captain what to do with the cutlasses – as senior naval officer, I am sure he will have some very good ideas.”

They waited hopefully for the captain’s response. Ephraim came back laughing.

“I told him they would not fit there, Adams. Mr Barclay, tuck the cutlasses away where the sun does not shine. You must have a dark corner in your domain.”

“Aye aye, sir. Total of twenty-eight hands other than gun crew and hydrophonists, sir. Each to be trained with a rifle?”

“Issue one to each man, including the specialists. Ten each to the trawlers, and ammunition. Remainder to be racked within reach of the guns, against need. Spend an hour a day on each trawler, if needed. The naval ratings should know their way round a three-o-three and can teach the merchant navy men. You just need to supervise them, get them started.”

“Give me something to do, sir. What sort of drill?”

Ephraim had no idea.

Christopher caught his eye.

“Just the basics of loading and firing, Guns. No drill as such. We ain’t Whale Island. Simply how to tuck the butt into the shoulder, breathe out and squeeze the trigger then work the bolt quickly. No marching; no parade stance; no saluting.”

“Takes the fun out of it, sir. Just civilians with guns, not proper bluejackets, they’ll be.”

“That’s all we want, Guns. Effective if they are forced to be.”

Barclay left for his workshop to commence the stripping down and cleaning of the rifles, all of them still covered in factory grease.

“What was that about, Adams?”

“The gunnery instructors love to drill the men, parade ground style – all bull and blanco. Totally pointless stuff!”

“No place for it at sea. Not in our ships.”

“Probably no use for the rifles, sir. As well to have them just in case.”

“In case of what, Adams?”

“Good question, sir.”

The crawled across the Ionian Sea and poked their nose up into the Adriatic. The hydrophone operators heard nothing other than the sounds of the trawlers.

“At least we know the machines are working, sir. They can hear the noises that are available.”

That was small consolation for five wasted days. Captain Hamworthy and Ephraim were both concerned that the squadron should be seen to be active, though not necessarily for the same reasons.

“What about we venture up the Adriatic and hang about off one of the Austrian navy’s known bases, Adams?”

“In a ship that can make ten knots, sir? With destroyers and cruisers good for thirty and likely to spot us quite quickly? We were chased off very rapidly in Connaught and had to use the big guns to discourage the pursuit.”

They knew the size of Connaught’s guns.

“Scrub that idea. We have to do something that at least appears useful.”

“Go to the convoy routes from Malta to Mudros, sir? Patrol them hopefully, there and back again and then return to Malta for coal. Follow that by a run to Gibraltar and patrol the straits off Gib for a week before returning to Malta again. That will use up six weeks, if we are careful. If no joy, then we could patrol the track to Alexandria, and north to Cyprus. Then up to the Dardanelles and back again. Should be able to work some yard time in Alex, sir.”

Hamworthy could see virtue in that proposal.

“’When in trouble, when in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout.’ If we don’t know what we are doing – then make a lot of noise about it and seem furiously active. It normally works, Adams. Sounds good to me. Course to intercept a sensible route from Malta to Mudros and then follow our noses, Adams. Have we seen any fishing boats lately?”

The change of subject confused Christopher. He wondered what they had to do with submarines.

“Nothing. I just fancied fresh sardines.”

“I shall give the order to look out for boats, sir.”

“Very good, Adams. Put the change of course into effect first.”

Fanny Brown turned her head southeast and searched diligently along the convoy lanes. There was nothing to be found. She did discover a fleet of Italian fishing boats and bought fresh fish, much to the approval of all – their cooks, hired Maltese civilians, were good with seafood.

“We know there are submarines, both Austrian and German, working these waters, so why are we not finding them, do you think, Adams?”

Ephraim was puzzled and wanted to do his bit for the war effort. He was genuinely distressed that four ships and some two hundred men were contributing nothing.

Christopher had given some thought to that question, had a few ideas.

“Fanny Brown is big and old and noisy. Ancient triple expansion steam engines, banging and rattling with a score of stokers heaving coal and a big old propeller thrashing around. Add to that three trawlers, all making their own noises. The submarines have listening gear and we are making a lot more noise than a little boat with an electric motor. We can assume that they will have been sent out with orders to target troop convoys. A little auxiliary cruiser accompanied by three small ships is not much of a target compared to a fat convoy. I suspect – without any evidence, any proof at all – that they hear us before we hear them and quietly sneak away from our vicinity. German Intelligence is said to be active in Malta. They probably know all about us, know that we are submarine chasers, and have passed the word to stand well clear. No certainty, can’t have, but I would not mind betting that we have been spotted more than once and that the Hun has run to pastures greener.”

It was very likely, Ephraim was forced to admit.

“What can we do?”

“Nothing in this ship, sir. Nothing at all. Too slow and too big. A silent and faster small ship might do the job, but I suspect it is the wrong job. Rather than sending out chasers to seek out submarines, why not make the submarines find us? Put Fanny Brown at the head of a convoy, listening for subs coming in to target the troopers behind us.”

“They might hit the troopers, Adams.”

“So they might. There’s a chance that we could destroy them in return. We have more troopships than they have submarines.”

“Don’t like it… I think you might be right. Can we do it?”

Christopher laughed and elaborately shook his head.

“No! Nay! Never! Not a chance! The Admiral in his wisdom has decreed that we shall patrol to seek out and destroy submarines. Such being the case, the correct policy, indeed the only possibility, is to follow his orders. There is no choice. We cannot tell an admiral in all his glory that he is mistaken – admirals do make mistakes but being wrong is not one of them. We are to patrol, even though patrolling is showing itself futile. If the orders are as yet providing no success, then we must ask ourselves how and why we are not applying them correctly. Let us be clear, Ephraim, it is not the orders at fault, it is ourselves for not following them properly.”

The first Lieutenant showed himself less than amused, the more so when he realised that Christopher was more than half serious.

“I thought the Navy was the leader of the nautical world, Adams, on top of everything!”

“The Navy thinks the same, old chap. To an extent it is – the biggest and in some ways the best. Unfortunately, it’s sixty years since we had a war, and that not very big, a century since last our wooden walls ruled the globe and defeated Napoleon. The Navy has become stale, hidebound and incapable of thinking for itself. The great bulk of our admirals don’t think for themselves at all – they have no need to, everything that can be discovered about war at sea is already known. They have to keep up the tradition. They are not in the business of doing anything new. Submarines exist, but they are unfair and should not therefore be encouraged. I have actually heard that said, by the way. Almost unbelievable.”

“What else is new to them, Adams?”

“The torpedo, which they have, mostly, come to accept as a legitimate weapon of war. The aeroplane, which they believe is a toy. You know, Ephraim, it is possible that before this war is over there will be planes carrying a ton of bombs. What would happen if, say, a great flotilla of them, five or six together, flew over a battleship?”

It was an appalling prospect.

“Could that happen?”

“Why not? There was a seaplane flew over Connaught only last month, up in the Adriatic, not so far from Split. It could do nothing other than observe – dropped a pair of tiny grenades and missed the bridge, did no harm at all. But it might have hit. Had there been several of them, quite a chance they could have killed the officer of the watch, possibly caused the ship to run off course and ground itself. Tell that to an admiral!”

“Until it happens, they will not believe it. Then they will not do very much about it.”

“Exactly. I would bet that you will not see special high angle guns to defend against aeroplanes this year.”

“And we will not see ships with hydrophones sailing with every convoy for a long time yet… Do all merchant ships sail in convoy, by the way?”

“No. Troopers commonly do, in case of German raiders, but the bulk of freighters sail on their own.”

“Even less chance of protecting them, in that case.”

“The Admiral will tell you that our patrols are protection enough. If they all cluster in convoys, they make big targets. If instead you have fifty ships sailing separately, what is the chance that they will be caught and sunk?”

“Isn’t that a good argument?”

“Might be! Who knows? Too complicated for us – mere lieutenants and commanders and such low objects hear and obey. End of story!”

Chapter Five

“That, gentlemen, was a bloody disaster!”

The battalion had indulged itself in a day of field manoeuvres, marching some five miles from the barracks onto sandy heathlands and there forming line and advancing, shoulder to shoulder, in the approved fashion. The morning had gone well. The afternoon had seen them in companies, practicing for the war of movement that would come when the trenchline was breached.

The officers, most of whom had never been out in the wilds on their own before, had taken their compasses in hand and led their companies and platoons off to locate and occupy designated points. Once arrived, they were to report to the waiting observers and then march off again to the main road and the rendezvous before returning to barracks for the evening meal at six o’clock. The last platoon had come in at midnight, by lorry, having been found valiantly marching westwards behind their second lieutenant, away from the barracks and some twenty miles distant. Had it not been for a telephone call from a local police station they might have been halfway to Wales by dawn.

“There will be lessons in map-reading, gentlemen. The use of the compass will be taught, rather than guessed at. The art of finding one’s way in alien terrain is to be mastered!”

Few of the officers would meet Richard’s eye. One young gentleman did so happily.

“Permission to speak, sir?”

“Yes, Mr Openshaw. Briefly.”

“Signposts, sir. Do they have them in Belgium?”

“They do, Mr Openshaw. It is always possible to read them. Do remember that they, for some reason best known to themselves, use the kilometre.”

“Yes, sir. Divide by eight and multiply by five, sir.”

“Do what?”

“Eight kilometres amounts to five miles, sir.”

“Right. Thank you for that piece of information, Mr Openshaw. It does make life easier knowing that. I suggest you all note that quick conversion, gentlemen.”

Richard was inclined to give Openshaw a little leeway. His F Company had reached its target and had returned to barracks in good time, due, Captain Peters had admitted, solely to Openshaw’s ability to use map and compass.

“He was a Boy Scout, sir. Learned outdoor pursuits with them. Very keen on his scouting, sir.”

“How pleasing. The British Army having to rely on little boys in funny hats to find its way about the country! I suggest you organise lessons for all of the other subalterns, Captain Peters. No doubt Openshaw can set them into little patrols to assist their learning process.”

Richard was displeased with the quality of his officers mess – too many new and young and wholly untrained. He had too few experienced officers to show the new men the right way to do things in the Army, and had, he admitted privately, too little knowledge himself to offer the guidance that was needed. He went to Colonel Braithwaite for assistance.

“We need experience, sir. Can we borrow a pair of dugouts from Depot, perhaps? Two old captains who have thirty years each of peacetime service can at least teach the youngsters the basics of how to be an officer. I can pull them into shape for the trenches. I don’t know enough of the basics of running a company and performing the routines of army life.”

“Not to worry, Baker! I shall put it in hand this day. Should have thought of it myself, a good idea. Take some use from the old farts wandering the Depot and looking for something to do. The basic routines of military existence are all most of them know – ideal for setting the boys on the right track.”

Captains Plowright and Anderton appeared within the day, lent by the Second Battalion with its colonel’s extreme goodwill.

“Couldn’t believe my luck, old chap, when you told me you actually wanted a pair of doddering old blowhards to teach your greenhorns the basics of military life. Can’t get more basic than those two! They know the fundamental rules of the Army – ‘if it moves, salute it; if it’s stationary, whitewash it.’ They’ll teach your new hands, privates and second lieutenants alike. Fill them with gin every evening and they’ll be refuelled and good as new next morning.”

Colonel Braithwaite passed them across to Richard, smiling gently.

“Gentlemen, thank you for volunteering to come to our assistance. You will know that we lost three quarters of our subalterns and captains at Neuve Chapelle and have had to make do with green replacements. They don’t know their way around the Company Books and have little idea of basic daily life. The Battalion Sergeant-Major is too busy to hold their hands and so I asked for two older men who had seen it all and done it as well to bring them up to scratch.”

The two stood tall and proud, their skills finally valued. Each had done his thirty years and had retired as a captain, having been promoted to the limit of his ability. Both had seen skirmishes in India and had fought the Boers. They were ideal to show young men the way to survive in the Army and how to do their basic job of leading small detachments of men.

“Right and Left Companies between you, gentlemen. Keep an eye out for the few who won’t make the grade. We shall return to the front in August, according to current plans. Any officer who won’t be good enough will be out on his ear before then.”

“I say, sir. What will the poor chaps do, eh? We was always used to help them along or push them across to the staff or transfer them to the Ordnance or such, you know.”

“Good if you can do it, Captain Plowright. We haven’t got the time, or the energy to spare to carry the no-hopers. Add to that, an officer who can’t pull his weight is dangerous out in the trenches. Likely to kill his own men through neglect or stupidity. Can’t be having that.”

Plowright accepted that an inadequate officer was a danger to his own men on active service.

“Saw it in Deolali in ’92, sir. Bad posting, heat used to drive men mad, sir – going doolally, we used to call it. Youngster fresh out from England and couldn’t be bothered to inspect the men’s water bottles. Half his platoon down with heatstroke! Lost two dead and four others never recovered, had to be sent Home unfit for service. All for letting them carry bottles filled half arrack, half water. Broke him, of course. Sent him back to England a civilian after three months out in India. Did none of us any favours. Son of a lord, you know. Made all sorts of fuss that the boy was put before a court. Damned fools! Any names to watch, sir?”

“Wincanton, Second Lieutenant. He is on his third week of Officer of the Day. Still another ten days left. Been in six weeks.”

They laughed – the young man had been slapped down early in his career.

“Tried to get him to put in for a transfer to this new RFC. No luck – boy says he has no head for heights. Don’t think he has a head for much, personally.”

They promised to keep an eye on the youth.

“One thing to say for Sandhurst, sir. It ain’t much good, but it drives the hopeless to send their papers in, unless they are royalty or the son of a duke or such, of course.”

Richard accepted there was no way of getting rid of those with too much influence.

“No royalty in our ranks, gentlemen! We are a fighting battalion, in the habit of getting up the sharp end.”

They nodded profoundly.

Plowright added a comment.

“Zulu War! Damned bad business, that!”

Richard was puzzled – he could not quite see the relevance. The Zulu War brought the shocking defeat at Isandlwana and the heroic defence of Rourke’s Drift to mind.

“The Empress Eugenie’s son, sir. Killed by the natives when he was out where he should not have been, exposed to danger. Speared! Damned sharp, those assegais! Why the boy was allowed out almost unaccompanied is beyond me – could never understand it!”

Richard had a vague memory of reading of the event, had not been aware it had taken place in the Zulu War.

“Exactly – even foreign royalty should be looked after better than that. We have none with us, as far as we know. Mind you, from all we hear of Dirty Bertie, nothing is impossible!”

They sniggered together, agreeing it was so.

“What of the aristocracy in general, sir? Don’t want to tread on the wrong toes, you know.”

“Very short of sons of peers in our ranks, Plowright. Wincanton, I know, and apart from that I think Colonel Braithwaite is our closest to blue-blooded.”

“Ah, yes! That family of Braithwaites, is he? Very well connected!”

The important matters established, the two captains were let loose on the battalion and entered into a reign of terror. The junior officers soon learned to cringe at the sight of the aged gentlemen bearing down on them.

“Cap badge not squared off, young man! Collar not properly starched! Speak to your batman about your shoes! Improve your posture – no place in the Bedfordshires for round shoulders! Straight back, now! March correctly – if you are on business, should be quick time! If you ain’t on business, why are you in sight?”

Second Lieutenant Wincanton found his life almost unbearable; he could not venture out of his room in the mess without a bellow of displeasure. A week and he sought an interview with Richard.

“Can I request a transfer out, sir?”

“In wartime? A transfer? You refused to apply to the RFC, although I would have supported that request. Where do you think you can go? The Navy won’t take you. I can hardly recommend you to another infantry battalion. I cannot imagine that any cavalry regiment would open its doors to you. You have no qualifications for the Medical Corps and the Pay Corps is for the unfit, those who must wear spectacles or are overage. Let us be clear, Mr Wincanton – you are no damned use to me and I cannot in any honesty send you off to any other battalion. Speak to your parents. They might have strings to pull that I do not. I can do nothing for you.”

“I do not wish to tell my father that I cannot cope in the battalion, sir. I hoped you might assist me.”

“Not a chance, young man! I can merely give you a single piece of advice – grow a pair of balls!”

The vulgarity shocked Wincanton, as was Richard’s intent. If nothing else would work then he would try crude contempt in the hope that the boy might be humiliated into growing up.

“This is your last stint as officer of the day, Mr Wincanton. I had hoped that the punishment might have encouraged you to apply yourself to your trade, to learn how to behave as an officer should. I do not seem to have been successful in my intent. I will warn you now that we are off on active service by the end of the summer. If you are not fit to command your platoon, then you will not go with us. That will demand a court martial to find you unfit and to break you down to private soldier. I do not wish to go to that extreme – it might reflect poorly on the battalion – but I shall not permit you to betray the men by your inadequacy. Go away, learn your duty and perform it. If you fail, I shall see you broken. I am sure your father will not be pleased to hear that his son has been discarded as useless!”

Wincanton left, close to tears. It occurred to Richard that he might be sensible to discover just who Wincanton’s father was; he might have power sufficient to be a nuisance.

Colonel Braithwaite did not know the family other than by the title. He promised to find out.

“Heard the name on occasion but not active in Society. Think he might be into politics. Second baron, the father. His old man was probably one of the new rich, bought a title in the Nineties. Easily done then. And now, of course.”

“In that case he might be doing much the same as my father attempted when he wangled me into Dartmouth. Trying to cement the son’s place in the upper classes by the backdoor, giving him a war record not just posing in the Guards.”

“Possible, Baker. More than likely, in fact. Won’t be forgiving of the boy if he lets him down. Take a look at his papers, see what his background is. His school might tell us something.”

They invaded the adjutant’s office and looked up the personal records of the officers, all locked away in their own cupboard, the key well secured.

“Let’s see, now… Educated at Oundle and prep school before that. One of the better schools in some ways, Oundle, but not for the bluest of blood, one might say… Always said in Society, whispered that is, that if you have enough money the school will ignore any rough edges in the parents. Passed out aged eighteen last year… Joined up in February this year. Was going for Sandhurst, he said, but couldn’t because of the war. What was he doing for the eight months in between, one wonders? Oh! Went up to Oxford, Magdalen College, which is academically demanding – not one of the rugby and rowing places for the idlers. ‘Chose to withdraw’ at the end of his first term. Ha! Too much like hard work, perhaps, but he must have been within reason clever.”

“That might be why he did not wish his father to know him to be a failure again, sir.”

“Might well be. If he don’t want to fail, he could try working hard, lazy little bugger! Push him, Baker! Make him a success or chase him out. No leeway at all. If he don’t make the grade, he can try life as a private soldier.”

“Despite his father being in politics, sir? Will he not have a lot of clout in the background?”

“So have I, Baker, and from old established families!”

Richard called Wincanton back to his office.

“Why were you sent down from Magdalen, Wincanton?”

“I was not sent down as such, sir. The Dean thought I would do better as a soldier, sir. In this time of national tribulation, it was necessary for every man to consider the needs of his country, sir. At least a dozen other chaps were encouraged to go elsewhere, sir. I told my father that I had determined to join the fight. The Dean promised that an application to return would be favourably considered when the war ended, provided…”

“As you say, Wincanton, ‘provided’. He would wish to see you applying as a captain and with a good record. You are sufficiently intelligent to succeed at University, I do not doubt. I presume you were not outstanding in terms of effort.”

“Not the thing to be a swot, sir. I am a gentleman, not a mere pedant.”

“Are you now? You are in effect saying you are bone idle, Wincanton. It is not good enough for me. A last warning – work hard or you are finished. I am content you are lazy rather than incompetent. As such, I shall have no mercy on you. I do not know who or what your father is, other than the little you have told me, but I shall have no hesitation in telling him why I have sent you to court martial. Your next transgression, Wincanton, sees you broken. I do not doubt, by the way, that any court will listen to me.”

Richard tapped the VC ribbon

“Yes, sir.”

“Go now, and work, Wincanton. Discover your duty and perform it unfailingly. Straight back and a soldierly bearing at all times. Keen and willing to find extra work to do. First in and last out must be your motto, Wincanton.”

“That’s the Rifle Brigade’s catchword, sir.”

“I believe it is. I am glad you know something, Wincanton.”

“My father tried to join me in the Rifles, sir, but they would not take me for not being an active, sporting sort.”

“Then turn yourself into one, Wincanton. Several of your young fellow officers are of an athletic persuasion. Join them in fitness and training.”

“What? Running, sir?”

“Good for you! The alternative may well be quick marching in the ranks.”

Richard returned to his consideration of the Company Reports for the week. The main emphasis at that stage of the battalion’s training was musketry – rapid and accurate fire in the butts. He read through the summaries of the scores for each man, looking for natural marksmen.

The Battalion Sniper, Pickford, stood out, as was only natural. Twenty rounds at a man-size target at three hundred yards and every one of them in the chest area, a perfect score and achieved in one minute. He did not expect any of the others to come close to that; if they did, there was always a place for other snipers.

Few of the new recruits even managed to get off twenty rounds in a minute, taking an aim too slowly. Of those who managed to fire their rounds, only one came in over fifty percent; he was an admirable ninety, however. He glanced at the name, Margerison, B Company, Captain Walters, sent a message for the captain to see him at his convenience.

Walters appeared within the hour, as he had expected.

“Margerison, Walters. Out of the ordinary as a shot.”

“Very much so, sir. Only a youngster, just eighteen, and a natural. Factory hand since he was fourteen, never so much as seen a rifle until we put one in his hand. No misses at one hundred yards and very few at three.”

“Sniper material?”

“Might well be, sir. Quiet sort of boy. Thinks more than he talks. Obeys orders snappily – keen to succeed, wants to be a good soldier. Likes it in the ranks. Very smart. He will make lance-corporal early. Short of education or I would be looking at the possibility of bringing him on in the field to make a commission.”

“We will need officers when we return to the trenches. That’s a certainty, Walters. Wise of you to look for the men who can rise in the world. Just how illiterate is he?”

“Left Elementary School at the earliest age, sir. No choice, I suspect. Father is a farmhand, I know, dirt poor. Went into a boot and shoe factory, being Bedford. Joined up on the day of his eighteenth birthday. Not stupid by a long way and a hard worker by nature. Might be he could master the needs of a subaltern, sir. If young Wincanton can do it, why can’t he?”

“Bear him in mind, Walters. Try to bring him on. For the while, I shall expect to put him with Pickford as sniper. How happy are you with the rest of the Company?”

“One lieutenant, Harris, and Second Lieutenant Godstone. Harris was depot, 2nd Battalion, came across with four months in. Not especially clever but hard-working and competent. He will do. Godstone, the Yank, is red hot. Knows more about soldiering than I do and works as well. My sergeant is able but inexperienced, one of your old hands, sir. For the rest, the bulk of them are boys, no more than fifteen originals. They are coming on, will be good enough in three months.”

The same story as every other captain had to offer, with the exception of Godstone.

“Keep them up to the mark, Walters. The trenches are demanding of the soldier and they must be ready for hard living. There will be another great attack in the autumn or spring and this one must succeed. No doubt they will learn from the experience of Neuve Chapelle and get it right this time. Then it will be a fighting advance as we chase the Hun across the Rhine and all the way to Berlin. The men must be able to march and be ready to fight hard. We cannot fail again, or if we do, it must not be because our men were not prepared and ready for battle.”

Walters had been wounded early in August and had never seen a trench. He was sure that the boys would be ready.

“They are very willing, sir. All volunteers and here because there is nowhere else a man can rightly be. They will do well, sir.”

“They did well at Neuve Chapelle, Walters. Trouble is, they could not pass through uncut wire. We must do better next time – the generals will know and will have a solution, I am certain, Walters.”

There was a ball that weekend, a huge, formal entertainment of which there were somewhat fewer this year, many hostesses feeling they should be less extravagant in time of war.

The evening’s entertainment had gone ahead, however.

Colonel Braithwaite introduced Richard.

“The Duke and Duchess of Bridlington. Major Richard Baker.”

They made the appropriate remarks and the Duchess, in her fifties and working hard to be no more than forty in appearance, made no apologies for holding her annual ball.

“We must keep up standards, do you not agree, Major? How else can we honour our heroes other than by representing the England they are fighting for?”

Richard smiled and agreed, unwilling to give an honest answer.

Colonel Braithwaite led him into the ballroom.

“One of the biggest in Town, Baker. Seen much in its time, you know. Best foot forward tonight – a shortage of young men, it seems.”

Richard glanced about him, saw perhaps too few of the youngest but far too many red-tabbed gentlemen in their late twenties and thirties.

“A sufficiency of staff officers, sir. Interesting collection of ribbons between them. I don’t in fact recognise many of them.”

“Russian and Belgian and French decorations, Baker. Commonly the case that the foreign governments leave it up to HQ to determine who should receive the awards for gallantry. The great bulk end up on staff officers’ chests.”

“I am amazed at their effrontery, sir! How many of them have ever seen the front line?”

“Bravery above and beyond the call of duty in tackling the mounds of paper that accumulate on their desks, Baker.”

“Ah! I see, sir! Nasty things those paper cuts can be.”

“Precisely! That is the only blood most of them will spill.”

They snorted and nodded to a waiter, took their glasses of champagne.

“Warm and inferior cru, Baker.”

“Tastes like sparkling wine to me, sir. Not a favourite – must be the peasant in me.”

“Tut! Champagne is the height of refinement, Baker! One is obliged to like it. Can you see any faces you recognise? This dance is coming to an end.”

Richard glanced about him, spotted Primrose Patterson stood awkwardly beside her mother. He made towards her, bowed and requested her hand for the dance.

“With pleasure, Major Baker. You remember the Major, Mama!”

Her voice made it clear that her mother was under the strictest of orders to do so. The lady smiled and focussed on Richard’s chest.

“Is that what it looks like? I did not know… How do you do, Major?”

“Very well, ma’am, thank you.”

They exchanged bows and a vaguely ineffectual gentleman gave a gentle cough.

“My father, Viscount Elkthorn. Major Richard Baker.”

“Ah yes. Heard all about you, Baker. Tell me, are these trench things really necessary? Costing a lot of money with their barb wire and such, you know? Could we do without them? One good charge and all that?”

“I am afraid that without them all of our men would be killed, sir. They are currently essential. I am sure you will find yourself asked to spend much more on them. We need ten times as many machine guns as we currently have, simply to match the Germans. Add to that, artillery to equal the Krupps guns and vastly more of wire. The German trenches cannot be broken through except by building up our strength to outmatch theirs. That will cost a deal of money, I fear.”

“They all keep saying that, you know, Baker. Taxes are too high already. Don’t know how we shall manage. You must pay a visit one afternoon and explain it all in detail. Shan’t talk here – supposed to be dancing, you know!”

Richard obediently led Miss Patterson out and discovered that she was, as he knew, clever and amusing, but possessed of two left feet, both of which ended up on his toes with some frequency.

“Sorry! I never did quite master the waltz, Major Baker. Or any of the other dances. I am not at all musical, either!”

“Nor me, Miss Patterson. I was forced to learn to dance, by numbers, at Dartmouth with a loud Petty Officer bellowing, ‘One, Two, Three! One, Two, Three! Gentlemen will lead and turn their partner.’ We cadets took it in turn to be the lady – an old naval habit, we were informed.”

“Going with the Rum and the Baccy, is it not, sir?”

“Sh! A young lady should not have heard of such things!” He made no attempt to conceal his delight at her comment.

“Sorry! I keep forgetting what is correct at a ball. I am thirsty – it is hot in here and one must be active. Is it like this in your trenches, a great mob, all pushing and shoving and yelling at each other?”

“There is a little more of artillery fire, I fear, Miss Patterson. Let me lead you to the buffet… Lemonade, is it not?”

They sat out the following dance, distant from her mother who was busy talking scandal with a collection of like-minded dames.

“Will you pay my father a visit, Major Baker?”

“Only if you will be there as well, Miss Patterson.”

“My word! Are you in pursuit of me, sir?”

“Are you supposed to ask that?”

“No. That’s another one of the rules I forgot. Only, it is unexpected – men have not ever pursued me before. They say I am too blue.”

“Intelligence can be a handicap, I believe, Miss Patterson. Shall we say that I should be happy to talk more to you, and in another place than this noisy crush. Oh, Lord – there is that hopeless little tit Wincanton! One of my bugbears, Miss Patterson. A second lieutenant and utterly valueless – bone idle!”

“His father is active in the Lords at the moment. Making a noise so that he may be taken up by government. The simplest way of silencing a nuisance is to make him a minister, you know, Major Baker. Then, having served a year or two he can be given the Order of the Bath or somesuch to make him happy. I do not know the young man, other than in passing. Not a friend of my family. The grandfather made a deal of money in some form of business and bought a peerage, you know.”

“Similar to mine, in fact, Miss Patterson, though my father hopes to come to the peerage on my back now. We are ironfounders and I suspect rich – my father has never confided in me. I do not doubt that he will soon be richer still – a war is good for the iron trades.”

She seemed more amused than shocked to hear that.

“I see. Do you need a well-born wife to make you socially acceptable?”

“Eventually, yes. I am not yet quite twenty-one years old, so that can wait – unless I am given reason to enter the marriage stakes.”

“You look older, sir.”

“Dartmouth beats the boy out of the cadet. The trenches have completed the job. I have little youth left in me, I fear. Add to that, I have to play the severe major – the source of discipline in the battalion. Oh dear! Wincanton has spotted me and is coming to pay his compliments!”

“He must do so – it is only good manners.”

“I am amazed that he ever made the effort to learn them. Here we go!”

He stood to acknowledge Wincanton’s presence.

“You know Miss Patterson, I believe, Wincanton.”

“I should jolly well think so, sir! Known her for years. Didn’t know you were acquainted.”

“We met recently. I did not expect to see you here – not the scene for a man of your age!”

“Not my idea of fun at all, sir! The Pater, you know, insisted that I should be seen in Town. I think he wishes to display me in uniform.”

“Making the most of the fleeting opportunity, one presumes, Wincanton.”

“I say, sir, that is rather harsh! I am utterly determined to turn over a new leaf, you know, sir. I am sure I shall be seen to shine, as is only right.”

“Excellent! The Battalion needs hard-working junior officers. When we reach the trenches you will have every opportunity to get to grips with the Hun – there will be trench raids and no end of such fun!”

“Might be a more interesting form of soldiering, sir. Can’t say that barracks life fills me with martial ardour. Perhaps the trenches will give a chap more to do that is useful.”

“Glad to hear you think so. I agree. Barracks is tedious. But! If the men are not properly prepared and trained, they will not survive in the trenches. It is our duty to do our very best for the poor chaps we lead.”

“Hadn’t thought of that, sir. The Pater is talking with Bridlington just now. Will you come across to meet him, sir?”

There was no choice. Richard smiled at Miss Patterson and thanked her for the dance and the conversation.

“Supper is at midnight, I imagine, Miss Patterson? Will you join me?”

She was willing, it seemed, through the red cheeks and stuttered assent.

“Good old Primrose! Nice sort of gal but far too much the scholar, you know, sir. Never catch a husband with her nose in a book.”

“You may be right, Wincanton. Pleasant girl to talk to.”

The elder Wincanton was a large man, taller than Richard and heavily built and inclined to be overbearing.

“You’re the famous Major Baker, then? Glad to meet you, sir. Honoured!”

Richard responded quietly.

“Young Horatio has told me much about you, Major Baker. I gather you and he have not entirely seen eye to eye, as you might say!”

“You could say that, sir. You might also say that I have threatened to break him, to have him reduced to the ranks for his incorrigible idleness and unwillingness to learn soldierly ways. He has just told me that he has determined to make amends, to set his nose to the grindstone. I do hope that his new willingness to pull his weight will not subside into the old habitual lethargy!”

Lord Wincanton seemed displeased by such plain speech. The Duke, at his side and listening happily, chortled.

“That will put him in his place, Baker!”

He did not make clear which Wincanton he was referring to.

“Going back to Flanders soon, are you Baker?”

“By the end of summer, Your Grace. We left unfinished business there.”

“Well said! I am too old, past it! Four sons and three of them are out there with their regiments, and the eldest in England on the staff. Proper place for any man who calls himself a man.”

“I tend to agree, Duke.”

“We all know that of you, Baker! Honoured to talk with you, got to do the rounds, you know – speak to every man present and try to avoid the Society Dames. Not as hazardous a duty as yours but sometimes more wearisome!”

Lord Wincanton remained, scowled at his son and jerked his head. The young man retreated.

“Will you really break him, Major Baker?”

“If he will not mend his ways, yes, my lord. His men have the right to be led by competent, hard-working officers. At the moment, he is an idler who will let them down. I will not tolerate that.”

Wincanton was forced to say the right words.

“No more you should… What do I do with him?”

“Nothing, my lord. I shall do all that is necessary.”

“I cannot persuade you to go easy on the boy? To give him a chance to change his ways over a period of time?”

“No, my lord. If he will not work with his platoons to bring the men up to the standard I require – and which will give them a better chance of living – then I must replace him. The sole means of getting rid of him is to set him before a court. If he is not on the top of his game within the week, he will go. That will see him as a private soldier and enduring the harshest of regimes in one of the unofficial punishment battalions.”

Wincanton showed alarmed. He had imagined that he would be able to pull strings and at the least have his son transferred to the Pay Corps or some other idle administrative unit safe at Home.

“What are they? I have not heard of them?”

“They are not much publicised, my lord. It has been the case that some of the new recruits have regretted their initial enthusiasm and have taken to criminal ways. It might be that the young men of a street or a village all marched off to volunteer together, making it impossible for any of the locality to stay behind without being ostracised by family and friends. These unwilling volunteers have sometimes misbehaved and have been weeded out of their original regiments and put together in special battalions. It is now the case that any man who goes before a court and who is not imprisoned will be selected for the reformist regime applied in these unseen units. They are, I understand, brutal in their discipline, effective in breaking the criminal. What they turn them into, I do not know. They are sent out to serve in the least pleasant of postings after their initial training.”

“Would Horatio survive such a life?”

“I do not know, my lord. I am, frankly, not concerned either. If your son continues to fail his men, then he must accept whatever comes his way. My sole concern is that the private soldiers of my regiment shall be well-officered by hard working young men of good character and sound principles. Of those four qualities, my lord, I am able to discern that your son is young.”

Lord Wincanton was inclined to take offence, but he could not make a scene at a Society Ball without creating a scandal which would be fatal to his current political ambitions.

“I shall speak to him, Major, most plainly. Is he aware of the existence of the punishment battalions?”

“I doubt it, my lord. He is not aware of much! I will say that I do not doubt his intelligence and ability to learn. His habitual idleness, evidently unchecked throughout his whole existence, makes it unlikely that he will succeed in applying his talents.”

The two parted and Wincanton was seen to leave the Ball a few minutes later, his son in train.

Mrs Joyce appeared at Richard’s side.

“Major Baker, is it not? I believe you were introduced to me recently.”

Warned that they were the merest of acquaintances, Richard agreed that they had met, at the Ball held some three weeks previously, he thought.

“I knew we had spoken! My husband, Colonel Joyce of the 7th Dragoons.”

The two military men exchanged brief bows.

“Good to see you, Baker. Heard of you, of course. Back from France for a week or two, conferences at the War Office, you know. Waiting on the breakthrough, planning for later in the year when you chaps give us a passage through the lines, you know.”

“As soon as we can, sir. Short of guns and rounds as yet.”

“So they tell me. Give us a mile of clear ground and we shall cut the Hun to pieces! Bring an end to all this trench warfare. Drive them back to the Rhine in short time!”

“I hope so, sir. We need to return to a war of movement. The trenches are a disaster. They kill soldiers and do very little else.”

“Well said, haw haw!”

Richard had heard of the cavalry ‘haw haw’, had never come across it before. He did not laugh. He noticed that Joyce was the best part of thirty years his wife’s senior, which might explain her warmth towards him on their sole prior meeting.

‘Stupid and elderly – not an ideal combination.’

He smiled his kindest to the pair and moved around the floor, glancing at his watch. Fifteen minutes to supper, he must locate Primrose.

It occurred to him that he was thinking of the young lady by her first name. Friendship at least. He wondered if there might be more. He spotted her and moved in her direction, was greeted by a beaming smile.

“Did you enjoy your conversation with the Wincantons, Major? I thought neither gentleman seemed happy on leaving the floor so early.”

He took her arm and guided her towards the supper room.

“I enjoyed a frank and open discussion of the young gentleman’s talents, Miss Patterson. Then I explained to his father the nature of the punishment battalions, the inevitable posting for criminal soldiers and broken officers who have been sent to the ranks. I believe the older man is to explain their existence to his son and tell him just how close he is to discovering one for himself.”

“As a ranker?”

“As a private soldier who was once an officer. The sergeants are all chosen as the hardest, most unforgiving of their breed. They will have nothing other than contempt for an officer who has betrayed all that their commission stands for. I am told that the introduction to the battalion is designed to break the recalcitrant. Ninety pounds weight of rocks in the rucksack and then double around the parade ground for hours unbroken. Day after day, punishment increased if their uniforms are not perfect each morning. Most have broken down by the end of the second week. I doubt that Wincanton would survive so long.”

She was horrified, wondered that he could be so unforgiving.

“He has let his men down. I know no crime greater in an officer.”

They forgot Wincanton as they nibbled at their salmon and a selection of the Duke’s dainties and talked deeply about the insignificant, each happy in the other.

Chapter Six

Higgins had the watch when Simon left his cabin well before dawn.

“Off Dutch waters, sir. Thirty minutes to Morning Nautical Twilight, sir. Clear skies but a sea haze and light sou’westerly wind, sir.”

Simon scowled in the darkness.

“Thank you, Mr Higgins. Could you perhaps tell me exactly where off Dutch waters we may find ourselves?”

Higgins knew he should have a position of his own but had only the vaguest reckoning of where they might be.

“Section leader has signalled preparative for the turn, sir. That means we should be four miles off the Scheldt, sir.”

“I know where we should be, Mr Higgins! What I wish to know is precisely where we bloody well are!”

“Yes, sir. Dead reckoning places us off the Scheldt, sir, but I am not sure exactly how far.”

“That is better, Mr Higgins. You cannot have taken any precise sightings and have not had the opportunity to take star sights, so dead reckoning will do. Always attempt to place us, however imprecise you may be forced to be. Never try to duck responsibility, Mr Higgins! Dawn stations! Coxswain to the wheel.”

The half section was out hunting for minelayers. Two new fields had been laid in Belgian waters in the previous nights and there was a feeling in Intelligence circles that there was to be a third. Simon had only second-hand reports to go on as Intelligence did not speak to him since his unfortunate interception of their senior man off Zeebrugge.

The Yeoman of the Signals gave a quiet call.

“Blackbird, sir. Light signal to assume course and station, sir. Executive.”

“Carry out the orders, Mr Higgins.”

The boy stumbled over his own tongue giving the orders but he achieved the turn in succession that brought the four destroyers into an echelon combing the waters offshore of the Belgian coast. He was finally becoming useful, if not yet all that a lieutenant must be.

“Blackbird making the challenge, sir!”

The bows lookout yelled as loudly as he could, to be heard throughout the ship.

Blackbird was inshore by more than a mile and ahead of Sheldrake by about the same distance.

“All guns and tubes ready, Mr Rees!”

Dawn action stations demanded that all crews were closed up at immediate readiness; it did no harm to shout so that all hands could hear and know that action was imminent.

“Gunfire, sir!”

Six small ships shooting together, each with a pair of guns forward, heavy quickfirers. Five inch at least.

“German destroyers, Mr Rees. Prepare to engage with torpedoes. Note the time, Mr Higgins.”

The First Lieutenant was standing at Simon’s shoulder. Polly was at the after four inch, both shifting at the run at the first words from the lookout.

“Blackbird, sir. ‘Half section to attack with torpedoes. Scatter. Blackbird hit.’”

Simon opened the cock to the engineroom voicepipe.

“Full speed. Torpedo attack on six or more destroyers. Smoke.”

The turbines grew noisier and spray began to bucket over the bows.

“Coxswain, zigzag on mean course for mouth of the Scheldt. Get inshore of the action.”

The coxswain knew more about conning a small ship than Simon, needed only the most general of orders.

“Readying torpedoes, Coxswain.”

He would steady Sheldrake when the word was passed.

“All guns, hold fire. Lay on the leading destroyer.”

There was a chance that Sheldrake had not been spotted behind her smoke in the night. If the torpedoes were to be successful, which was not probable, destroyers being small, fast, agile targets, then they would have to be fired at close range.

Speed was rising fast, quicker than was to be expected. A strong possibility that the Chief ERA had injected petrol into the furnaces to raise the heat quickly. A dangerous procedure and strictly forbidden and resorted to by every competent engineer in emergency; Simon knew there were drums of petrol in the engineroom. If it went wrong, too much allowed to enter and vaporise before combusting, or so it was surmised, there could be an explosion which would kill every hand in the room and bring the ship to a sudden halt. Such events were rare and inexplicable, officially. Like any captain, Simon did not understand all that went on in the engineroom and did not want to know about any breaches of the regulations. He would thank the Chief later, privately.

They were closing the action very rapidly, the sun soon to rise off the port quarter and a good chance that they were still shrouded in darkness to the west of the enemy.

“Blackbird and Starling in action with German destroyers, sir. Both ships hit, sir.”

The German destroyers were bigger, faster and armed with three five inch quickfirers to the two four inch breech loaders on the British ships.

“Grouse on the port bow, making torpedo run, sir.”

The third of the half section had worked inshore and was now heading directly into the action, firing the stern four inch together with her broadside twelve pounder. Through his glasses Simon could see shells burst on the leading German ship, none doing damage that would sink her but possibly disabling guns or wounding and killing their crews.

The range was down to a mile and the German ships were opening their formation to avoid the running torpedoes.

“Blackbird and Starling fired torpedoes, sir.”

The four tinfish might cross the track of the scattering ships, would certainly cause them to break their formation even further.

“Mr Rees, fire when ready.”

A few seconds and the shout came that the torpedoes were running.

Simon delayed a little longer, called the guns to fire when they were no more than three cables distant from the nearest destroyer.

The forward four inch was unusable at full speed, the bows effectively submerged.

“Twelve pounder hitting, sir. Four rounds on the bridge and foredeck.”

“Directly at her as if to ram, coxswain! Mr Higgins, ready!”

The midshipman was stood at the port twin-Lewis, his loader at his side. The starboard bridge lookout had the other and was aiming towards the stern of their target. His streams of rifle-calibre rounds would cross the front of Sheldrake’s bridge; Simon hoped he might not be too enthusiastic.

“Bring her round, coxswain! Shoot, Mr Higgins.”

The German fell off into the trough, her bridge party shot to pieces. The four inch and twelve pounder hit at close range and started a fire in the spaces below the bridge, sufficient to annoy the ship, probably not enough to cause fatal damage.

“Blackbird, Starling, Grouse disengaging, sir.”

“Coxswain, course to join Blackbird.”

“Did anybody see the torpedoes?”

No volunteers – they had missed and disappeared at the end of their runs.

“Enemy retiring, sir.”

A normal brief and inconclusive engagement, the sort that was reported every week. A few men dead, two or three ships to the dockyard. Nothing achieved.

The four ships came to anchor in Dunkerque outer harbour, were ordered to remain ready for sea.

“Back to Harwich for us, it seems, Mr Eldridge. What’s on the defects list?”

“Not much, sir. Minor engineroom repairs, none urgent. Replacement of your cabin door, the hinge having buckled. A new searchlight, ours being old and still mounted above the bridge, blinding the officer of the watch when it is used. Useful but minor.”

“I could do with the cabin door being done, Eldridge. I have to kick it to get out in the morning and leave it wedged open in the day. It’s new – why is it a problem?”

“Steel, sir. Fireproof and can act as a bulkhead for flood control. Highly sensible but they mounted it on the same hinges the previous wooden door had used, despite weighing three times as much. Applied stupidity in the yard, sir.”

“Unusual, they are normally more sensible than that.”

“Probably missed on their final check before leaving, sir. We were in a hurry, you will remember.”

“Only too well! No word about that drunken idiot Gibson, I suppose?”

“Nothing, sir. He will die unrecorded at Dartmoor – they definitely sent him there. No longer the Navy’s problem, nothing to be heard of him ever again.”

It was a simple way of brushing the Navy’s failure under the carpet, assuming that the man’s collapse into drunkenness was the service’s responsibility.

“Leaves a bad taste, Number One. No matter!”

“Leader signalling, sir, for the section with a separate for us.”

Eldridge read the flags as they were hoisted.

“’Depart for Harwich as of eight bells, this watch. Lieutenant – alphabetical – Eldridge, Sheldrake, to Starling in command, immediate effect.’”

“Congratulations. Run! Coxswain, starboard cutter!”

Eldridge had less than two hours to get to Starling and assume command and ready her for sea. She had taken damage and lost her captain and probably others of the crew. It was not an easy introduction to his first command. At least he had almost nothing to pack from his cabin, the bulk of his effects held in the depot ship.

“Mr Parrett! Take over as First Lieutenant, temporarily, pending decision at Harwich. Mr Higgins, make ready to leave harbour. I shall take Mr Eldridge’s watch.”

“No longer junior ship in the half-section, sir. You are senior to Mr Eldridge.”

“Well thought, Polly. We shall go out third in line.”

All four ships were ordered into the dockyard at Harwich and two week’s leave was announced. The Commodore, Tyrwhitt, explained why when he visited Sheldrake before she entered the yard.

“Busy summer ahead of us, it is expected, Sturton. Every reason to believe there will be an increase in submarine activity and we know that there are more German destroyers ordered to Belgium. I hope to get rid of the H Class boats – too small for our work now. Won’t happen immediately. When it does the old boats will be sent out to the Med, more for them to do there in the traditional way. You will not be going, Sturton. I have provisional agreement that you will get one of the larger boats coming in. Still as a lieutenant, unless I can work the oracle! You won’t have much time for leave in the next few months so make the best of it now. What do you want as a replacement for Eldridge?”

A lieutenant would almost certainly be senior to Polly and would become the new First. If he asked for a sublieutenant then Polly would get the promotion, at a very early age and with limited experience.

“A sub, if you please, sir. Parrett is capable of becoming Premier and should be brought along if possible. Higgins needs another six months at least as a mid. He showed well in action, emptied his Lewises into the bridge of the Hun, wiped out his command, so he has some use to him.”

“A Mention?”

“Not for simply manning his gun efficiently, sir. That’s what I expected of him.”

“Your decision. A decoration for the lad would be popular… Don’t say it, Sturton! The look on your face will suffice. I will have a sub across to you within the hour. Won’t be from the boats, though. Have to come from one of the cruisers. Easy to train him up, no doubt. Well done in your little action, by the way, sort of thing I have come to expect from you!”

Tyrwhitt took his boat and Simon called for Polly.

“New sublieutenant due to replace Eldridge, Mr Parrett. You step up as First. You know ‘what’ to do. Any doubts about ‘how’, speak to me on the quiet. Take us across to the dockyard as soon as the signal arrives. We go to leave as quickly as we can after getting into the yard.”

“I don’t think I can reasonably take two weeks, sir. Too much to do and get my head round. Seven days and I shall be back. Will you come to the Hall again, sir?”

“If I may, Polly, for the week you are there. I must send a telegram to my uncle, informing him that I shall be with him next week. He will probably want to arrange something for me now that he has stepped up in the world and I am officially next in line for the title.”

“Fixing you up with a properly blue-blooded wife, sir?”

Polly was obviously interested from his sister’s point of view.

“No. I can see to that for myself, Polly, and not yet in any case.”

Polly worked Sheldrake into the yard and tied her off at the berth indicated, all highly competently and not too concerned about manoeuvring the ship in tight quarters.

“It’s not the ship-handling, sir. Keeping on top of the paperwork will be hard labour.”

“Necessary, however, Polly. Stores especially – can’t trust the quartermasters an inch! Double-check everything with them. Is that our young man making a slightly belated appearance, Polly? I wondered where he was, and why.”

A dapper young gentleman trotted up the brow and made his salutes; he was followed by a rating carrying a pair of large suitcases.

“Sublieutenant Michael Manvers-Porteous, sir. Reporting to join.”

“So you are. Just a fraction delayed, perhaps?”

“Well, sir, it seemed more sensible to walk across to the yard than to take a boat out to Sheldrake’s temporary mooring. Easier, one might say.”

Simon nodded, making no further comment but wondering whether the young man might not be idle.

“Where are you from, Manvers-Porteous?”

“Fearless, sir. Light cruiser. I was two years a mid aboard her, was made at the end of last year.”

“Good enough. How are you off for leave?”

“Had three weeks in January, sir. None due for the while.”

“Convenient. I am off for a fortnight and Mr Parrett will take one week. You will be in charge of the ship in our absence. Contact addresses in my cabin, of course. Make yourself known to Mr Higgins, the mid. Mr Parrett will discuss watches with you now.”

“Very good, sir. Mess fees as well, I expect. Old Fearless was a tight one for fees, sir. Kept a very formal wardroom.”

“I suspect you will find Sheldrake a little different, Sub.”

An hour and the ship was empty, every hand who had a place to go to at the station and waiting for trains to Peterborough and thence to the whole of the North Country or west to London and the main lines to southern England and Wales. A few remained and would stay in the dockside barracks, wandering out to the pubs at lunchtime and being carried back late at night. There was nothing else for a single matelot to do.

They were met at the station at Ipswich, Alice sat unaccompanied on the bench of the trap.

“All of the younger men are off to war now. It’s up to the girls to take their place while the older men who remain do the heavier work. I can drive myself and you in the trap.”

It was daring by peacetime standards; thinking on it, unimportant in time of war. Simon smiled, happy to see her, recognising that he had a soft spot, at least, for Miss Alice.

They set themselves and their baggage aboard, Simon ending up next to Alice on the bench.

“Did you not bring your servant, Lieutenant Sturton? I thought all captains were accompanied by their personal man.”

“Packer has a sister down in Plymouth who he has not seen in fifteen years. He is a Chatham hand officially and has never been able to afford the extra rail fare for that distance.”

Ratings were given travel warrants to go on leave, but only to the port where they had officially signed on. Packer had been in London when he had joined – how and why, Simon did not know and would not ask – and consequently had become a Chatham man. It was a simple matter to change a rating’s home port, to ‘correct’ his file; it required only an officer with reason to do so.

“So you have sent him off to see her! That is very kind in you!”

He supposed it was. He would have rather said that it was part of the bond between the captain and his man – they looked after each other, the gains to both being substantial.

Polly was surprised and distressed as they made their way towards his home.

“Every field is down to wheat, Alice! All of them. No beans, no barley, no roots!”

“I don’t know much about farming. I think I heard that wheat flour for bread is in short supply. Something about ships sinking bringing wheat from America. The farmers are under orders to grow all of the wheat they can. Except for some who plant potatoes instead. I know the breweries are allowed to plant their own barley but not so much of that as it used to be. There is a shortage of beer in the pubs, I am told.”

“Bad farming not to rotate. They will harm the land!”

Simon also knew very little about agriculture – it did not feature in the Dartmouth education.

The Parretts were glad to welcome Simon, the more for hearing of the death of Lord Perceval and knowing that he was one step from becoming Viscount.

“My uncle tells me he will definitely not remarry – he believes that divorce is wrong and refuses to accept that he is single.”

“Ah yes! Ten years ago, was it not? Quite a fuss at the time, whether a New York divorce was lawful in England. I know it was suggested that she would be taken up for bigamy if she returned to England, not that she ever has. Did Alice mention Sarah’s tragedy?”

Simon had noticed the elder sister to be withdrawn and dressed very dark.

“Her fiancé’s battalion was brought back from Ireland and sent to France three months ago. He died last week. Some sort of trench raid, or some such thing.”

“The figures are high, I am afraid, ma’am. Polly has become my first lieutenant due to the promotion of my senior to replace the captain of Starling who was killed in action a few nights back.”

“Oh! He is promoted, you say?”

“He is, ma’am. Young indeed for the rank. A man with his decorations must expect to rise in the naval world, of course. A Mention and a DSC before age twenty is not in the ordinary way of things.”

They had not realised the extent of their son’s distinction, made much of him now they were informed.

The week passed quickly, almost all of it in Alice’s company and strolling about the grounds or venturing into Ipswich to discover what, if anything, there might be in the shops.

“It is shocking how the war has created hardships, Lieutenant Sturton. Only last week, try as she might, Mama was unable to find caviar anywhere! None of the stores had any! She had to change the menu for the dinner party she was holding.”

Simon was not entirely certain that qualified as hardship. He said nothing. Miss Alice was not the most practical of young ladies – clever and good-hearted and wholly unable to look after herself without a maid. As a housewife she would be able to give the correct orders to the cook and to listen to all the housekeeper had to tell her; she would not be able to do any part of their work herself. Wed to her, the Navy would be impossible. She could not run a household on the China Station, she would not know what needed to be done.

Was that a difficulty? Perhaps he would not wish to remain in the service after the war – long years of tedious cruising and doing the pretty in foreign harbours, promotions coming only slowly. The cruise he had enjoyed on St Vincent before the war now seemed to him to have been a tedious waste of time. Assuming he made full commander within two years, he would likely be another fifteen before he became post captain – he would still be one of the youngest in the rank. It would be a long, slow struggle upwards. If he left at war’s end then his grandfather would be able to ensure a place for him and a rapid rise in the City or possibly in politics, maybe both, the two often went together. Alice would be the perfect hostess for such an existence…

He was undecided still when he left for London at the end of the week, shaking Alice’s hand at the station as waited to board a mid-morning train. It was the only physical contact they had made during the week.

“Thank you for looking after me so well, Miss Alice. I shall be kept busy all summer, the Commodore tells me. There is a chance of another, bigger ship. If possible, I shall take Polly with me, but he may be given a destroyer of his own. We shall see. I shall see you when next I am ashore, if you will permit?”

She was pleased to do so, asked him to come back whenever he could, made it clear that he was entirely welcome in her life.

The guard’s whistle blew and he hopped aboard the train, waving as they pulled out. He found a compartment, not empty but with seats available, only two young men ensconced. They were both army, new second lieutenants, little younger than him but very green. They took in the medal ribbon and sat quiet, giving him the comfortable corner seat which he took as his due.

Arriving at St Pancras terminus in London he was forced to take a bus, there being no taxis in the rank. He had never ridden a bus before, was unsure about the procedure but suffered the experience in silence, glad that he had small change in his pocket. He did not think the conductor would have been pleased to have been offered a sovereign for a thruppeny fare.

Lord Perceval’s butler had risen in the world with his employer, was now far more formal in his ways.

“Welcome, Lieutenant Sturton. My lord is engaged at his office this morning and must attend the Lords for a debate this afternoon. He will return for seven o’clock when you are to be present at a dinner party with him, if that will be convenient. It is suggested that you may wish to speak to the tailors this afternoon, sir – a matter of appropriate civilian dress. You will find additional dinner wear in your wardrobes, sir, using existing measurements. Your man is not with you, sir?”

“He is visiting his family in Plymouth, for the first time in many years. He is in any case a seaman. He is valuable on the bridge in action and for keeping me comfortable in my sea cabin. As a valet, I feel he would be out of his depth.”

“Quite, sir. The second footman has been appointed with that possibility in mind. He will attend you, sir, when you are ashore.”

Simon was not certain he needed an attendant; it would have taken a far better man than him to deny the butler in his own household.

“Thank you. Should I change before I go out to Gieves?”

“No, sir. Your ordinary day dress will suffice. The shoes, perhaps…”

It had rained in Ipswich and there was a splash of mud on the shiny black leather.

“I shall go upstairs now.”

“Very good, sir. There will be a small luncheon when you come down and the car will be available.”

It seemed there was no shortage of petrol or drivers for the influential.

Simon’s valet was waiting for him and provided him with a pair of perfectly polished and new shoes. He glanced disdainfully at his master’s footwear and shook his head.

“Rather worn down at the heel, sir. Not the thing for us.”

He limped across the dressing room to put the shoes into a small pile of discarded clothing.

“New shirts, sir, are a necessity.”

“You are wounded?”

“The Marne, sir. My knee. The leg is stiffened now, I am afraid, but I am still capable of service, sir.”

“Good. I had rather have a fighting man about me. I am sorry, I do not know your name.”

“Thwaites, sir.”

“I doubt I shall have more leave this year after this week, Thwaites.”

“I am to remain as footman in your absence, sir. I will keep up your wardrobe the while.”

“Excellent. It seems likely that I shall become a civilian after the war – there will be more for you then.”

The tailor discussed civilian dress and seemed surprised that Simon was hardly interested in the topic.

“I must wear uniform while on active service, sir. That includes periods of leave. No doubt I would relax that rule was I to go into the countryside where boots and gaiters might be more the thing. In Town, however, I must abide by regulations.”

“Quite correct, sir.”

“No doubt I shall have more for you when the war ends.”

“Next year, sir. Not too long to go now. We are told that Lord Kitchener’s New Army will sweep all before it in the summer of ’16 when it is fully trained and ready.”

“Is that so? I am glad to hear it, albeit somewhat surprised. I presume there will also be the extra machine guns and artillery pieces that will be needed to blast a way through the trenches?”

That, the tailor could not answer for.

The dinner party was long and luxurious – there was certainly no shortage of caviar here. Simon ate too much which supplied him with a base for the excess of wines, port and spirits that accompanied and followed the meal. He was not in the habit of drinking large amounts, unlike the majority of the gentlemen present, and took some pains to sip from the various glasses presented him rather than swig them down. He managed to retain a clear head while still seeming to drink his share.

The war was largely ignored – conversation revolved around the doings of the more notorious members of Society and the activities of the City. Simon knew very little of either but smiled politely and showed interested.

He was the sole front line officer at the table. A major wearing staff tabs and an unknown general were the only others in uniform. Neither had ventured as far as France and they seemed disinclined to talk to a junior officer wearing a decoration for gallantry.

His uncle brought him into the conversation.

“Simon! Explain to me again how it comes about that you are lieutenant and captain simultaneously.”

“A small destroyer does not need a senior officer to command it, sir. I am called Captain when I am aboard Sheldrake but am no more than Lieutenant Sturton ashore.”

Two of those present had heard of Sheldrake’s recent actions and nodded their heads in respect. The remaining dozen showed blank, war news being of no interest to them except at the highest level of strategy.

They joined the ladies and found them discussing the war in terms of those young men of their acquaintance who had fallen in recent weeks. A massive female, a banker’s lady, he believed, turning the scales at a good two hundred pounds, addressed Simon graciously.

“As an actively serving officer, Lieutenant Sturton, perhaps you can explain why our casualties are so high in this war. Every day sees its list in the newspapers and young men such as you are prominent in them.”

“The deaths are predominantly in the trenches, ma’am. Young subalterns take a leading role there – they are, properly, at the front of their men at all times. The barbed wire makes aggression costly, ma’am, and the machine guns rule the Front. The Germans, of course, have many more machine guns than us.”

The general intervened to assure him that was being changed. More Vickers Guns and Lewises were being produced every day.

“Of course, young man, when the breakthrough occurs next year, the cavalry will come into their own and this aberration of trenches and machine guns will be forgotten about.”

“I am glad to hear that, sir. Have the cavalry come up with some sort of armour for their horses? They fell like flies in the war of movement last year.”

There was no reply to that provocation.

Two more dinner parties passed equally tediously and they came to the Ball that was the highlight of the week. The Duke and Duchess of Darlington hosted the event and were polite to the young lieutenant, the more so when they discovered he was Perceval’s heir. Simon was informed that he was a notable catch in the marriage market.

“I am sure that all of the debutantes will have an eye to you, Sturton!” The Duke laughed merrily, disclosing the scent of the half bottle of brandy he had already consumed that day. “An old title and rich. Quite a trophy for the fortunate young lady who snabbles you, sir!”

The term seemed somewhat vulgar for polite converse but was ignored in the mouth of a duke, the more because he was one’s host. Perhaps he had meant to say ‘snaffles’, the polite suggested.

They paused in the entrance to the ballroom, glancing about them to see if there were close acquaintances to greet. Simon spotted one familiar face and made his way around the floor as the waltz ended and the gentleman and his somewhat clumsy lady retired from the fray.

“Major Baker?”

“Sturton, how are you? You will not know Miss Patterson, Lord Elkthorn’s daughter.”

The introduction made, they retired to a table at the side, taking glasses from a passing waiter.

“I hear you have been a busy man, Baker! I am envious of your distinction, old fellow!”

“Luck, Sturton. No more than that. I will admit to far preferring the Army to the senior service. I could not get the hang of the sea.”

“You have certainly made yourself at home on land, sir!”

“The old story – the right place at the right time. I have seen reports that you have been busy too, Sturton. The Navy doesn’t exactly give away its DSCs!”

“As you say, Baker, mostly luck. Posted to the Harwich Patrol, we are in business almost every week. Had I been sent to Scapa, then it would have been polishing the brasswork and nothing else, day in, day out.”

“True enough! I am back here at the depot for the while, counting down the days to get back where I belong. It can be shocking tedious, living in the depot and counting beans all day long. I was told you have made captain of your destroyer, Sturton. Rapid promotion for the Navy!”

“Yes, surprising, ain’t it? Of the four of us, I did not expect to be called skipper first. Poor old McDuff went down with Good Hope, of course, and you went off to do better things in the Army. That left Adams, the golden boy of us all.”

Major Baker explained the circumstances to Miss Patterson, the four midshipmen aboard the same dreadnought in 1913 and how their paths had diverged.

“What’s Adams doing now, do you know, Sturton? Aboard a flagship still?”

Simon shook his head and glanced about, the picture of the man with scandal to tell. He noticed that the young lady leaned forward to listen to his words, in process brushing close against Baker and staying there, to his obvious pleasure.

“Don’t know the detail, old chap. All kept very quiet. Somehow Adams – of all people – put his foot in it! I don’t know what he did, what the story is, but he has been dumped into the most undistinguished of postings in the Med. Something about being put aboard hired minesweeping trawlers to be their navigator!”

“Oh, my word! How are the mighty fallen! Got to admit, Sturton, I never liked him! Far too much the gilded lily for my taste!”

“Born to the purple? He did know that to be true. Mind you, so am I these days. My two cousins fell last year – you met one of them, I believe – and I am now heir to Perceval, of all turn-ups!”

Miss Patterson joined the conversation.

“Oh, I heard about that! The son of the disgraced younger brother who has suddenly become the richest prospect in the field this season! My mother has warned me to keep an eye out for you, Mr Sturton, on the grounds, I quote, ‘he has money and a title’. I gather, Major Baker, that you have more money in your background but less birth, although the Cross makes up for much of that.”

“Are we supposed to be told such things, Primrose?”

“No, I expect not. I forget what I am supposed to say and what not, you know, Major. I do know that you should not call me by name at a ball!”

Simon grinned, able to see that the two did not really need his company.

“I suppose I must show myself on the floor. My Uncle informed me that I am here to be seen and to meet ‘eligible young females’. Thing is, strictly on the QT, old chap, that I have met the sister of my first lieutenant already and don’t really want to discover anybody else. Not High Society – her father is a baronet with lots of Indian money a generation or two down the line – but I much suspect she will do me.”

Miss Patterson put an admonitory finger to her lips.

“Ssh! Don’t admit to that Lieutenant! There is at least one earl’s daughter present and looking for a heroic and rich and titled match. You will spoil the hunt for her if you admit to being taken already!”

“Is that another thing you should not say, Miss Patterson?”

“Probably. I must try to remember the rules, one day.”

Simon moved away from the table laughing quietly. If Baker managed to land that young lady, which seemed not unlikely, he would find himself with a handful. She seemed a very attractive young woman and he wished him joy of his conquest. Thinking on it, Baker appeared to be a far more pleasant fellow than he had been on St Vincent. The Navy had handled him badly, it would seem.

He stood and smiled as he looked about him, surveying the field, unaware that he made a noticeable figure, taller than average and strongly built and fair haired in the fashionable Saxon image.

A young lady smiled hopefully, reminding him of his obligations.

“Would you care to dance, ma’am? My name is Sturton.”

She was Miss Faulds, or so he thought she said, forgetting name and face both over the evening. He danced half a dozen waltzes in a row and then accompanied his latest partner to the supper room, spotting Baker there in company with his Primrose and joining their table.

“You know Miss…”

“Atkinson, Lieutenant!”

“Sorry, so it is. So many new names and faces, you know…”

“Of course. Miss Patterson and I have been acquainted for many years. We all know Major Baker, of course.”

Baker smiled his kindest and said that Sturton was an old friend from Dartmouth days.

“Sailed with him for two years as well before it became obvious that the Navy was not for me.”

“It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, old chap! I like it, especially in wartime, but I think I will follow your example and send my papers in when the war is over. Too much excitement, rushing about in the boats, to want to go back to peacetime routine.”

Miss Atkinson agreed that it must be so. Better far to take up a proper occupation on land.

“The estates must need a firm hand after the war, there will be so much to do on them.”

“I believe our estates are being much curtailed, Miss Atkinson. My Uncle and I agree that the Land is no longer the force it was and we shall be better off without all except for a single place in the country.”

“But… the Land makes the Lord, you know! Where will we be without the great estates?”

“Better off, quite possibly, ma’am. I know that we shall be much reduced in acreage and far better off financially. No money in the Land, I am told.”

“But, one has money in order to possess land! It is the other way around, you know.”

Miss Atkinson appeared disillusioned with her partner – it seemed he did not have feet of clay. Miss Patterson giggled.

The Ball trickled to an end, the final enthusiasts leaving the floor in the middle of the night. Simon was not among them. He and his uncle left at one o’clock, both tired from unaccustomed dancing.

“Was that Miss Atkinson I saw you with at supper, Simon? Wealthy family, father is a general as well. Their estates are mostly in the West of the Midlands, close to the Welsh Marches. Massive acreage, which must cost him a pretty penny to keep up.”

“She was not pleased when I said that we were selling out of our lands. Apparently, the aristocracy has a duty to the Land. Sort of thing my grandfather believed, I must imagine, sir. Not in contact with this century.”

“Exactly. Cross her off the list, eh?”

“She never reached it, sir. Have you heard of a family called Parrett? Got a place outside Ipswich.”

“Baronet? Big in the City, or his father was, at least. I believe he leaves almost everything in the hands of managers. Got some good men as well. Why?”

Simon explained his first lieutenant and the sister.

“Good match, if that’s so, Simon. No complaints from me, that’s for sure. The girl would probably come with the income of fifty thousand made over to her. Possibly be in line to inherit more, the way this war is going! The deaths are horrendous, you know!”

“They are, sir. I suspect as well they are only just starting.”

Chapter Seven

“Bloody hell, Adams! You were not exaggerating! I have never seen a shitheap to match this! Called at Monrovia twenty odd years ago on a cruise – I thought that was rough but it’s nothing compared to Mudros. It stinks! Make our compliments to the SNO and get the hell out of the place. Yeoman!”

Captain Hamworthy dictated a brief signal to the admiral, informing him he was on anti-submarine patrol and intending to comb the passage to Rhodes next, unless the admiral had information of enemy activity elsewhere.

“Explains why we are here and shows willing, Adams. Course for Alex, if you please. I fancy an ice-cold beer and a little of relaxation. Mr Ephraim! What’s on the list for the yard? Something to keep us for a week but not as long as two, ideally.”

The first lieutenant shook his head.

“Ship’s in good condition, sir. No action and only four thousand miles since coming out of the yard, sir.”

“Not good enough, Number One! We need to give the men forty-eight hours for each watch, so that demands four days, and I need at least a week! If nothing needs fixing, break something quick!”

“We need a wireless, sir, to inform the admiral of the whereabouts of submarines when we come across them. That would take some days to install if it was even possible.”

“Doubt they would have spare sets in Alexandria, Number One. Worth a try. Mr Barclay? What do you need?”

“High-angle Vickers or a pompom or three inch, sir. To deal with the seaplanes in the Adriatic. Saw them twice, if you remember, sir. Suspect they are informing submarines of our whereabouts.”

They had seen nothing in the air but Christopher had mentioned their encounter on Connaught.

“Well said, Mr Barclay. Exactly what was needed. What is it, Yeoman?”

“Acknowledgement from the Admiral, sir. ‘No information of submarines. Carry out orders.’”

“Very good. Acknowledge receipt. Make sail, Mr Ephraim. Course, Mr Adams?”

“Direct for Alex or by way of Cyprus, sir?”

“Sod Cyprus! I’m thirsty.”

The Mediterranean Fleet was at anchor in Alexandria, a new battleship and four pre-dreadnoughts showing their eminence and dozens of light cruisers and destroyers clustered around them. A pair of battlecruisers were leaving as Fanny Brown appeared outside the harbour.

“Your old Invincible there, Adams. Hardly marked by her battle.”

“She was almost undamaged, sir. One man killed as the sole result of more than two dozen hits. Almost all common shell exploding against her armour. Nothing pierced the deck. Lucky. If the Germans had had twelve inch guns with armour-piercing, she would have been shot to pieces.”

“Shouldn’t happen. Battlecruisers are not designed to take a place in the line of battle. Should be nowhere near a battleship.”

“Agreed, sir. I hope the Admiralty knows that.”

Hamworthy snorted.

“The Admiralty knows sweet nothing, Adams!”

They made their number and requested coaling.

There was no alternative – they had to be refuelled. The C-in-C demanded to know why they were present in Alex.

“Pursuit of submarine from convoy route. Submarine lost offshore during night.”

The Yeoman made the flag hoists and waited for a response.

“Captain, Fanny Brown, report to Admiral after tying up at coaling berth.”

“Take her in, Mr Ephraim.”

Captain Hamworthy changed into his reporting uniform and was rowed away as the first coal rattled down the chutes from the loading hoppers, Alexandria having modern coal-handling facilities. He returned three hours later, called Ephraim and Christopher to his cabin.

“C-in-C wanted to know why I had not wirelessed a sighting report. Was most put out to discover we had no set aboard. He kicked his staff and they have dug out a new wireless being held as a spare here, against a breakdown. It will be installed tomorrow. We are in the yard for the week. There will be a pair of high-angle Vickers installed as well. Becoming standard for all ships to have anti-aircraft guns, he told me. They are going to put one aboard each of the trawlers as well in place of the three pounders.”

“Useless weapons, the three pounders, sir. Don’t know why they persevere with them.”

“They’ve got them, Adams. Having spent money on them, they have to be used, even if they are useless these days.”

It made a peculiar logic, Christopher realised.

“We enter the yard in the morning. Leave roster takes effect as soon as we are tied up. One watch-keeping officer to remain aboard at all times. Put up a roster, Ephraim. Do you know Alex, Adams?”

“Never been here, sir.”

“Haven’t been here since ’98 myself. Come ashore with me and we shall see what’s changed!”

It was a good week.

Christopher returned aboard rubber-legged, hardly able to stand. He had spent none of his allowance for three months, had blown more than a hundred pounds in the week and had exhaustively enjoyed himself. Now that he had no career to worry about, he had felt able to indulge in all of the pastimes the shore had to offer – it had not mattered if he had been known to frequent the houses of pleasure, he had no reputation to lose, no promotion to jeopardise.

Captain Hamworthy had felt the same.

“You could knock me down with a feather, Adams! Never been so thoroughly entertained in me life! You’re a good man to go ashore with, Adams! You know how to enjoy yourself! Buying up that whole chorus line from the nightclub was a hell of a stroke!”

“Fifty quid well spent, sir! Not quite what my father gave me the money for, sir, but it bought a memory or two!”

“Another week and I would have needed to buy a walking stick, man! Ah, well, back to business! Mr Ephraim, what has happened in our unavoidable absence?”

The First Lieutenant had also enjoyed his days of leave, if not so thoroughly. He yawned and stretched.

“We have a wireless transmitter and receiver, sir, and a telegraphist to operate it. Range, he tells me, of some six hundred miles, so we will be able to contact one of Alex or Malta or Gib wherever we are in the Med, sir. The Vickers have been installed on the bridge wings, sir, outboard of the Maxims. Two gunlayers as well. Coal is at full, sir, and we have taken aboard full provisions. Water is at full, sir. The wardroom has purchased its needs as well. Crew have returned from their leave, sir, no deserters and only three men on the sick list – one stabbed; one severely beaten in a fight with two soldiers; one exhibiting symptoms of an undesirable illness, sir. All three have been sent to the shore hospital, sir, and have been replaced from the flagship. The word is, sir, that we are performing a vital function as a submarine chaser and must be at full to maintain high efficiency. Sailing at dawn, sir. Trawlers report all ready to sail, sir.”

“How pleasing. Course for Malta, Mr Adams.”

The First Lieutenant offered an envelope.

“From the Admiral, sir. Orders.”

Hamworthy opened the sealed message and swore.

“Belay that order, Mr Adams. Course for the Adriatic. We are to place ourselves on the routes that submarines must use to and from their bases.”

“Not much chance of hearing submarines before they hear us, sir.”

“None, Adams… What and why?”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“You would not have made that obvious comment unless you had something in mind, Adams. So what do you propose and how will you justify it?”

“We can assume that the subs will use the deepest-water channel, sir. The Adriatic has shallows that they will definitely avoid. I would suggest that we place ourselves in the middle of the area and shut down the engine. Heave-to, maintaining silent order, ourselves and the trawlers in line abreast. If we hear anything, we guide the nearest trawler onto it and drop a couple of depth bombs and see what happens.”

“And if we hear nothing?”

“Go somewhere else and try again. If that don’t work, hide inshore and listen – we might pick up some noise.”

Hamworthy shrugged.

“We know that patrolling up and down don’t work, Adams. So, we might as well try something else, to see if that fails too.”

“If we try, sir, we can report our best endeavours. As well, sir, would it make sense to set the trawlers in echelon rather than line astern as a general rule? That way they could drop left, right and centre of anything we picked up. Say they were always to drop three bombs at a speed of what, eight knots? They could spread nine bombs over a patch about two cables square. Might have a better chance of getting close with one at least.”

“Why not? If nothing else, it will show willing. The Admiral can’t say we did not do our best. You never know, we might hit something as well.”

“How do the trawlers actually drop their bombs, sir?”

Hamworthy did not know. They had too few to throw away on exercises.

“Go across and see, Adams. Make an effort to be seen to train up the flotilla. It will look good in my report.”

Christopher took a boat across to Hans Heine, requested permission to come aboard and introduced himself to Skipper Murchison, a fisherman of many years experience.

“Adams? Are you the bloke who was with the Star boats when they stuffed that Turk?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good! Old Jack Biggar said you knew your arse from your elbow. Saw him in Valetta on his way home. What have you got for us?”

Christopher explained that he did not know how the depth bombs were dropped and thought he should.

“Nothing much to see, Adams. We stick the fuse in when we are told we might use them – should be easy enough, never tried it yet. Then we hook the bomb up to the derrick and hang it over the side and let go when we are told.”

“How long would it take to release a second, sir?”

“Ten minutes, I would reckon. Have to roll a second one across then hook it up and fuse it before hoisting it over the side. Can’t be quick.”

“Could you work out something faster, Skipper?”

“Could – don’t know if it would be a good idea. Be easy enough to fit brackets around the stern, three of them and stow the bombs in them with the hole for the fuse up and close to hand and just pull a rope to drop them out the bottom. Could use a net, thinking of it, with a cod end, sort of thing, to snatch it open. Thing is, Adams, I ain’t sure I want to. Speed’s the thing.”

The skipper seemed to think his comment was self-explanatory. Christopher showed a blank face.

“Say we’re making six knots – got to go slow for Fanny to listen for what’s about. We start chasing and open up the steam valves – but we ain’t in no bloody destroyer what goes from six knots to twenty in five minutes. Old Heiney is a trawler and takes half an hour to work up from six knots to ten! So, we drop a bomb and she blows at a hundred feet, thereabouts. Say she takes ten seconds to drop – I don’t know how long but it won’t be much more than that and could be less. Six knots is two thousand yards in ten minutes, which is two hundred yards in one minute and thirty-three yards in ten seconds. About a hundred feet, more or less. So we’ve got a hundred pounds of whatever’s inside the bomb, lyddite or something, blowing distant a hundred and down a hundred from our stern. That’s going to shake our guts out without trying to chuck another couple into it. I don’t know about killing submarines but it ain’t likely to do us no favours.”

Christopher borrowed pen and paper for a minute, confirmed the arithmetic.

“Guncotton, I think, not lyddite. Makes no difference. You should not drop at less than twelve knots for safety’s sake. You can’t do that in this vessel. I’ll speak with Captain Hamworthy, Skipper. For the while, drop one only if the word comes and keep your crew forward when doing so. What I will suggest is that we drop one for testing and see what damage it does to you. If it shakes your guts out, which I expect, we’ll take the problem back to Malta.”

Christopher returned to Fanny Brown and took his calculations back to Hamworthy.

“Good chance they will blow rudder and screw off, sir.”

“Bloody near a certainty, Adams. Can’t work them in an echelon, either – do number two in line no favours at all!”

“Arrowhead, sir, three to drop together and hopefully box the submarine in. Might be an idea to lay out the towing gear, sir. Might well need it.”

They closed Hans Heine and informed her skipper of their conclusions. He shouted back that they ought to try one out – he thought she was a strong built boat.

“Not for practice! To big a risk. We’ll give it a try if we hear a sub.”

They entered the Strait of Otranto, the narrow waters between Italy and Albania, and pottered along at three knots, sufficient to maintain headway, listening hopefully. They heard nothing through the first day but partway through the middle watch, close to two in the morning, a lookout on the bridge wing shouted that he could hear a motor revving high in the distance.

The officer of the watch called all hands and Christopher rushed to the bridge, joining Hamworthy and Ephraim, all with their heads cocked and a hand to their ears.

“Submarine charging its battery, sir?”

“Could be, Adams. Where? How far distant?”

Off the starboard bow, somewhere…

“Can’t use a light signal… Drop a boat, sir? Inform the three trawlers and tell them to be ready to launch a bomb?”

Hamworthy nodded.

“Go in person, Ephraim. Tell them to be ready to make full speed. In about an hour, I will fire star shell and then open up with the main armament. They are to advance and drop where they see the submarine go down if they don’t spot any hits. Chances are they won’t, firing in the night at a tiny target.”

Ephraim nodded and trotted off to his boat.

“Mr Adams, put together a boarding party. Say six men with rifles. If possible, take her over. Try to lay your hands on her confidential books if you can get aboard and inside her.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

It struck Christopher as a suicide mission. He had no objections to that. He strapped a pistol to his waist, loaded it and settled to wait, six seamen behind him.

“How long does it take to charge batteries, sir?”

“Buggered if I know, Adams.”

“Nor me. A few hours, I suppose. Bloody daft place to choose for it – narrow waters off a major naval base. Must have no choice in the matter – I expect they have to charge every night, without fail. Not my idea of fun!”

“Wouldn’t get me down in one of those bloody things, Adams!”

They waited and listened and decided the submarine was coming slowly closer. Ephraim returned.

“I ordered them to use their four inch if we opened fire, sir.”

“Good idea. Should have told you that myself.”

The lookout called quietly.

“Light, sir. Very faint. About two hundred yards, sir.”

They peered and agreed there was the tiniest glimmer.

“Taking a smoke, do you think, Adams? If they are that close, they are bound to spot us. Shoot, Mr Barclay!”

A single star shell and then common shell from the four point seven and twelve pounder that would bear. The bridge Maxims opened up as soon as they could see.

“Over… Under… Close alongside… Close… Hit!”

The trawlers made their slow approach, four inchers busy.

“Cease fire!”

The trawlers were too close for safety.

“That’s a hit from their four inch, sir. She’s not submerging, must be damaged. Hans Heine is going to hit her… He’s ramming, sir!”

There was a great crunch as the trawler’s reinforced steel bow hit and rode up over the submarine’s hull, forcing the boat onto its side.

“She’s taking water, sir. She’s going.”

“Star shell, Mr Barclay.

The light was just adequate to show the submarine sinking stern first and on her side. She slipped away quickly.

“No survivors in the water, sir.”

“Only one way out and the water was flooding down the conning tower. Poor sods!”

“Remind me not to volunteer for submarines, sir.”

“Yeoman, light signal Hans Heine. Condition report.”

A short delay and the trawler responded.

“Minor damage to bows. Reinforced for Arctic ice.”

“Make thanks and congratulations. Message to wireless. Report C-in-C Malta. ‘Fanny Brown and flotilla sunk one submarine by shellfire and ramming – time and position from Navigator – returning Valetta to make good damage’.”

The bridge messenger took the details from Christopher and trotted off to the wireless cabin.

“Close trawlers.”

The three were close together, celebrating, they supposed. Captain Hamworthy took his speaking trumpet.

“Returning Malta. Follow Fanny Brown. Did you see number or name on the submarine?”

“Austrian, sir. She had the double-headed eagle painted on the side of the conning tower. Nothing else.”

“Well done! What speed can you make?”

“Probably six knots, sir. There is a slight leak to the bows, would not wish to push faster.”

The leak remained no more than trivial and the second day saw the flotilla in Valetta harbour, Hans Heine taken immediately into the yard.

The Admiral was not displeased with their performance.

“Killed a submarine! Well done. There have been losses to subs and we needed to hit back. Trouble is, we need to sink another dozen at least. You did well, Hamworthy, but we still have no idea of the value of depth bombs and hydrophones.”

“With respect, sir, we can say that trawlers are not the answer.”

Hamworthy went through the arithmetic relating to the launching of depth bombs.

“We need a ship capable of high speed, sir, and with very rapid acceleration. The ideal would be a destroyer, able to stand off and then make a run at high speed, dropping where the listening ship ordered. I am of the opinion that any trawler that dropped a depth bomb would certainly blow her own stern off.”

The Admiral swore and worked at the sums, coming eventually to the same conclusion.

“Not less than twelve knots… Twenty would be safer… A half-section in line abreast to allow for inaccuracy. The listening ship can only give an approximate location, after all. What does that fellow Adams say?”

“Airships, sir. A blimp would be the answer. Two would be better, of course.”

“Impractical. I have none in the Med. Otherwise, I suppose this is all his work anyway.”

“Mostly, sir.”

“Damned nuisance! Young fool should have kept his parts in his trousers – waste of talent! Has he any other suggestions?”

“Fast motor launch, sir. Petrol engined. Carrying a single bomb and capable of a good speed, a mid in command. Small enough to swing from the davits on Fanny Brown. Drop her on first hearing a noise. Crew of three, most likely, so no great loss if it all goes wrong. Carry four of them and add four mids to the crew and all done, sir.”

It was a sensible suggestion. Midshipmen were two a penny, swarms of them to be found on any battleship and of remarkably little use to their running.

“First time I have ever heard of something useful to do with the brats.” The Admiral turned to his flag captain. “Beamish, have we fast motorboats to hand, do you know?”

“Probably, sir. Valetta is the sort of place to have some. If not here, we could likely find some in Italian ports. Always big in sporting boats, racing and that sort of thing, the Italians. Take a couple of weeks to locate launches, sir.”

“Do so, Beamish. Hamworthy, take Fanny Brown out again, with the two undamaged trawlers. Show willing, sort of thing. Make a patrol to Gib and back. See if anything turns up. With luck, we can have the boats ready for you when you come in. Put up extra davits on the forward well deck and off you go. You will need, what four mids, four engine mechanics and four ratings additional… Easily done. Advantage of a merchant cruiser – plenty of accommodation. Give them to Adams to command – keep him busy. Let him take a boat out while he works out how to do the job, if it’s practical. He’s clever enough to have a chance of making a go of it and if he cocks up, well, no loss to the service.”

“Good young officer, sir. Could do well, sir.”

“I know, Hamworthy. He has put up a black and that’s all there is to it. He might be a second Nelson – he still ain’t going anywhere, except out at the first opportunity.”

“It’s a waste, sir.”

“I bloody know, man! He should have thought about that before he went about dipping his wick in some Mayfair knocking shop. He took a chance and it failed and now he’s buggered! Hard luck! Saw a bit in the papers that came out from London last week, by the way. Looks as if the place he went to has been shut down – big trial at the Old Bailey. The madam went down for twelve years for running a brothel and another five years for corrupting a minor, one of her girls being underage. Consecutive sentences, she’ll do seventeen years all told, poor old cow! Someone really had it in for her!”

“I’ll tell him, sir. Might be some compensation, he’s not as badly off as she is. I wonder…”

“Whether the family pulled strings, Hamworthy? Seems not unlikely. None of our business, however.”

Christopher had little doubt that his father had played a role in the background.

“Don’t matter to me, sir. Probably makes the Old Chap feel better – all of his plans upset and a lot of money wasted and his third son lost to the family. He would have wanted revenge. Bad man to cross, my father. Wouldn’t want to be in my eldest brother’s shoes just now.”

Fanny Brown sailed and made a leisurely passage to Gibraltar and then an idle return to Malta, seeing and hearing nothing en route, much to the pleasure of all aboard.

“People used to pay good money for Mediterranean cruises, Adams! And we are taking in the sun for free, courtesy of the Grey Funnel Line.”

Ephraim was happy to lay out in the sun, gaining a tan and sipping at a bottle of beer while off watch. Christopher could not entirely shake off the years of training and hard work but did manage to undo two buttons on his shirt. He admitted that it was pleasant to lie out in idleness.

“Bought a couple of books when we were in Gib, Ephraim. Nothing too highbrow – Conan Doyle, you know, Sherlock Holmes. Never had time to read before. Makes a change.”

“What will you do when the war’s over, Adams? A life of leisure?”

“I think so, Ephraim. I really don’t think I will be working for a living.”

There were no motorboats waiting in Valetta. The Admiral had informed Their Lordships of his scheme and it had been taken out of his hands and would be trialled at Portsmouth. Fanny Brown was to act as an escort to Mediterranean convoys. The trawlers were to go to minesweeping duty, Lieutenant Adams to be navigator to their flotilla, bearing in mind his recent success in a similar function.

The Admiral called Christopher to him, informed him that there would be two more trawlers making the flotilla up to five.

“Yourself as sole regular officer, Adams. Up to you to maintain standards, you know!”

“Sir.”

“Your flotilla is to be based out of Alexandria, Adams. Vital harbour and must be kept clear at all costs. A highly responsible position. Make a success of it – no ships lost – and it might be possible to send you back to England one day.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Christopher did not believe a word of it and did not care in any case. He knew what he was going to do, the hour that he heard the war was over. For the while, he would do his duty and enjoy the little life he had left. He took his dunnage across to Hans Heine and found that she had a cabin available and a tiny messroom for skipper and first mate, all of the officers normally to be found on a trawler.

“The Germans believe in keeping the officers separate even on a fishing boat, Mr Adams. We have a steward as well although we share the one galley.”

“Sounds more comfortable than the Scottish boats, sir. Is the flotilla made up, sir?”

“Ready to go, Adams. The other two are newish boats as well. Both Norwegian owned originally, bought in at the beginning of the war from the yards where they were being built, Sunderland way. Bergen and Tromso, they have been named. Steel hull and coal fired, like our three. Don’t know why most fishing boats still use coal. Cheaper than oil, maybe, and no need for speed. Six knots to Alex, best economical speed. Do you know anything about minesweeping?”

“Tried it once, sir, at the Dardanelles. Have we got rifles aboard?”

“Kept our half a dozen and rounds for them.”

“Then we have all we need. Sweep en echelon and watch the man ahead. Always the chance that the leader will bring a mine to the surface, right in front of the boat behind him. Be better if we had wireless aboard so we could talk to each other. As it is, can’t even use flags for most skippers not knowing how to read them.”

“Shout loudly, Adams. There won’t be any mines off Alexandria. Nothing to lay them there. Just so much bullshit, mines being laid by submarine. They won’t fit aboard! No way of doing it. The Turks haven’t got any minelayers to work that coast and it’s too far for the Austrians. Might get a commerce raider, I suppose, but not much chance of that in the Med.”

Christopher tended to agree.

“Possible that the Austrians might send a coaster out in disguise, sir. A little five hundred ton tramp steamer, sort of thing there’s hundreds of in the Med, with a mine ramp in the stern for laying a dozen or two at night. Unlikely, though. Holiday time for us, sir.”

The admiral in Alexandria agreed.

“Nothing for you to do here, Adams. Best thing for you to do is to take the flotilla through the Canal and into the Red Sea. Work the coast south as far as Somaliland and back to Port Suez. Slavery patrol. Small boats like yours can get inshore. Stop every dhow and coaster you see and rummage them thoroughly. There’s slaves going into the Arabian peninsula still. Bloody thousands of them every year. Go south on the African coast and then make your way to Aden and back up the Red Sea coast towards Jeddah and then back to Suez. Keep an eye out for Turkish gunboats. Supposedly, and I don’t believe it meself, there are one or two naval craft still working out of the small sheikhdoms along the Arabian coast between the Gulf and the Red Sea. Won’t be anything to worry about if they are there.”

“Yes, sir. Can we go into the yard, sir, and have an extra freshwater tank fitted? There would be space in the fish hold, sir. The boats have bunkers for six weeks, sir. I don’t believe their water could hold out that long in the Red Sea.”

“Sensible suggestion, Adams. I will organise it. Take a few days. Give your people shore leave for the while.”

Christopher returned to the flotilla and asked the skipper of Hans Heine to call the other four to him to listen to their orders.

“The bloody Red Sea? In these boats, mister?”

“Yes, gentlemen. Slavery patrol. We are to have extra water capacity. I will ask about tropical uniforms as well.”

The skippers were outraged.

“What a good idea! These trawlers are designed for the Arctic Fishery, mister! The messdeck, such as it is, is set up to keep the men warm! No ventilation. Small scuttles and them fixed closed. They’ll be like bloody ovens in the Red Sea.”

“Hammocks in the open fish hold, is all I can suggest. Indent for canvas awnings to cover the deck in the day, like the Chinese gunboats have. Nothing else we can do, except to buy in as many crates of beer as you can smuggle aboard. Double up on tea. Try to get big floppy hats in the markets. Warn the men never to take their shirts off – they’ll burn in minutes. Salt tablets! The Medical Officers should have plenty of them for us to take. I’ll talk to the Port Medical Officer myself, get his advice.”

They were not appeased. The orders were crazy and they had no way to avoid them short of outright mutiny.

The flotilla entered the Suez Canal three weeks later, water tanks fitted and scrubbed out and filled with a thousand gallons apiece of additional drinking supplies. After much pleading, the admiral had found a sick berth attendant for Hans Heine to provide medical cover for the whole flotilla. He presided over a pair of bunks fitted into the hold space and walled off by canvas. There was a cupboard as a dispensary, filled with salt and quinine tablets and with a few bandages and bottles of carbolic for basic first aid. They were off to play at being policemen, had no expectations of battle.

Traffic south was sparse but more than compensated for by the flow of Australian and New Zealand troopships heading north for the Dardanelles. It was now certain there was to be a major landing at Gallipoli, the mainly ANZAC force to take Turkey out of the war in a single stroke.

“Good idea, if it works, Adams.”

Skipper Murchison was hopeful that the plan would come off.

“Opens the Black Sea to the Navy and allows convoys to bring military aid to Russia. Add to that, every chance of hitting up the Danube and into the soft underbelly of Austria-Hungary. One campaign and Germany is encircled. Cut off the oil supplies from Romania and that will put their fleet out of action. Makes good sense if it can be done.”

“Big ‘if’, sir. What I saw said easy land to defend. Mountainous, rough terrain. The invaders having to scale ridge after ridge and taking losses at each one. Be worse than the trenches.”

Suez offered a last chance of civilisation. They peered at the little town and passed on the opportunity – it was poor, dusty, dry and seemed to be inhabited exclusively by cheap whores and their unpleasant pimps.

“South down the coast, Adams!”

Dry, dusty and never-ending; the Red Sea coast was as unattractive a land as Christopher had ever seen. The temperature never fell below eighty at night and topped ninety-five every day; the little stokeholds reached one hundred and forty.

“Five knots maximum, sir. If we try for an average of eight we will kill the stokers. As it is, they are working one hour on, one off and drinking half a gallon in that time. Salt tablets every hour. It’s breaking them, and the engineer who has to do his four hours down there.”

“What about doubling the number of stokers, Adams? Shift say four seamen into the stokehold?”

“They’d mutiny, sir. Deckhands to turn to shovelling coal? They wouldn’t do it.”

Murchison reluctantly agreed – stokers and deckies barely talked to each other, there was no possible way they could do each other’s jobs.

“Right. Full speed only in action, with all hands called. Have we sufficient water for six weeks out?”

“Only if we refill in Aden, sir. From all I hear we won’t be popular if we do that – always short of water there. Might be forced to go south down the coast as far as the East African colonies. Mombasa has water, or so I would think.”

“Too far. Well off our station, Adams!”

“Not if we are in pursuit of a steamer carrying slaves. Certain information that she has headed south and intends to make for the Persian Gulf after getting clear. Lose her on the way and too far to make Aden without water. Forced to head for the nearest port.”

“Bad business if we are caught, Adams!”

“With respect sir, how? You are a skipper with effective rank of lieutenant commander. No chance of promotion for a skipper, you are as far up the tree as you can be. I am stuck in my rank until the war ends and I can send my papers in. What have we to lose, sir?”

“Nothing. Always wondered about retiring to a plantation in Kenya, you know, Adams. Might take the chance to have a look at the place while I’m there. What about you? Where will you go after the war?”

“After the war, sir? Another year at least in this fight. Can’t be more than two, summer of ’17 at the latest, must end by then. That’s a long old time, sir. If I’m still alive and kicking, I’ll make my mind up then. It won’t matter much – can’t go Home so I don’t care where I do end up.”

“Not staring down the barrel of your revolver, I hope, man! No sense in that!”

“No sense in anything for me, sir.”

They leaned on the railing of the little bridge, taking care to remain in the shade of the small awning they had rigged, and whistled for the steward. He came up with two bottles from the net towing astern, cooler than the air about them if not actually cold.

“Best tonic water, sir.”

Neither would take alcohol on duty, tempting though a beer might be. They would not permit booze to the hands during daylight hours and would not break that rule themselves. They drank a bottle of tonic water or lemonade every hour, with tea in between and a pint of water taken religiously every time they came on watch. They were still thirsty.

The sick berth attendant made his rounds every day, asking the same question of every man.

“What colour is your urine?”

They knew the answer had to be none at all – the water going out had to be the same colour as the water going in. That was the sole way of being sure they were drinking enough.

The bow lookout, changed every thirty minutes as he had to stand in the sun, peered from under the wide-brimmed hat he wore.

“Sail inshore, sir. Two lateen-rigged boats, sir.”

They turned a telescope on the pair, saw them to be of at least fifty tons, bigger than any fisherman on that coast. They could well be legitimate traders. There was a busy traffic in grains and various products of the coastal areas and some ingot metal from inland. There was a source of silver somewhere towards the highlands of Ethiopia and a trickle of copper and zinc and semi-precious stones as well, all going across the Red Sea to the whitesmiths in the Arab states.

“Signal the flotilla to maintain station on us. Close that pair. Lookout! Watch for the reef!”

The two lateeners were probably outside the reef but there was a great mass of coral along these shores.

An hour brought the five trawlers within hail of the dhows, which had made no attempt to escape and had thrown nothing overboard. If they had been carrying slaves they would probably have tried to slip them over the side for the sharks to dispose of the evidence.

“Board them, Adams. Normal stuff – take a quick look and let them pass the word that the Navy is rummaging every dhow they see.”

“Prevention, sir?”

“It might work. If nothing else, it will annoy them. Half a chance we might catch one.”

The little boats were empty of slaves and displayed no collection of chains and shackles for future use. Both carried bundles of a lime green leaf which they said was khat, a known stimulant chewed by the bulk of the population. The sole English speaker, an Egyptian carried presumably for that skill, said that it was harmless and good for hungry people, making their bellies happy.

“No law against carrying khat on the high seas. Where are you bound?”

“Jeddah. Many will buy khat during the haj.”

“Off you go. Have you heard of slavers onshore?”

No, he was assured not. Slavers were wicked people and he knew nothing of them. They were often pirates as well and honest merchants kept far from them.

“And that might well be true, sir. He was carrying turquoise in the rock, quite an amount of it. Saw some of that in the shops in Alex, made up into beads and ring stones and such. Nothing unlawful.”

The pattern remained the same all the way to Mombasa – a few dhows, all legitimate and the only steamers troopers in convoy going north.

They reported to the Senior Naval Officer and he was not surprised.

“Chasing the moon, gentlemen. Right of you to pursue information and come south of your station. Almost no chance of catching anything. Fast steamers out of Bombay doing the bulk of the slaving these days. They will outrun your trawlers. Coal up and take water and give your men a shore run before you turn round. There are supposed to be two at least of Ottoman gunboats along the southern Arabian coast, tucked away in the harbours of the emirates there. Keep an eye out for them, not that they should be anything to worry about.”

Chapter Eight

“Could do with a few days off, Colonel. Ought to go up to Kettering and speak to my father, sir.”

Colonel Braithwaite smiled knowingly, chuckled almost.

“Need to discuss family arrangements, Baker? Saw you with Elkthorn’s daughter again, at the ball, did I not?”

Richard laughed reluctantly.

“You did, sir… I need to ensure that the Old Chap is willing for me to get spliced so young. Not so worried about the financial side of things, of course. Might be he has his own plans and I am not twenty-one yet.”

“Nobody would know that to look at you, Baker. You could be five years older, ten in fact!”

“This war, sir…”

“Exactly. Giving us all grey hairs – well, would be except I think I’m going bald first!”

They laughed together, Richard wondering just how much of a joke it was. He was sure he had seen the odd silver whisker on his razor lately; his moustache certainly had one or two suspiciously fair hairs in it.

“Delay a few days, will you, Baker? I saw Fotherby yesterday, had a talk with him. Things in the making, it seems, might affect us. Should hear tomorrow or the day after – if there is anything going on at all. Go up to Kettering on Friday, say?”

The Colonel’s suggestion was effectively an order.

“Of course, sir.”

“Good. Take the following week, I expect – should work out. Talking of which, how’s that damned fool Wincanton working out?”

“Poorly. He’s trying hard now – and succeeding only in demonstrating that he’s hopeless. The more effort he puts into anything, the more likely he is to make a cock of it. Can we promote him and transfer him out, sir? Send him off to the trenches and he may stop a bullet that would otherwise have hit a better man. Likely enough – every other man will be better than him!”

“Doubt we could work it, Baker. No call out for volunteers for dangerous postings at the moment, can’t get rid of him that way. Does his family have any contacts in Africa, do you think? If they were in the trade, it might be possible to get him sent out to the East African campaign to use his local knowledge. He wouldn’t come back from that.”

“I’ll check, sir, but I doubt it.”

“Ireland, sir, that’s the furthest afield their interests extend.”

“Pity! Not to worry! Put up with him while you must. Fotherby is coming across to see me in an hour. Be ready to come at my call. Best bib and tucker but working – all very smart and keen, you know.”

Richard walked into the Mess, called for Paisley to come to him.

“Best working dress, Paisley. Brigadier is turning up and I am to see him, or so it seems.”

“Brigadier Fotherby, is that, sir?”

Richard nodded.

“Word is that he made major general yesterday, sir. Nothing said about why he would come here though.”

“Thank you, Paisley. The Colonel is a favourite of his, I believe.”

“Well in with the seniors as well, sir. At Division and Corps both.”

“Worth thinking about. Don’t know what it might mean.”

“Let me just put an extra shine on them shoes, sir. Means you had best be smart, sir. Tie straight, hat on square. That looks right, sir. Out you go now.”

Richard sat in his office, perusing the reports from the company captains, trying to penetrate the official optimism to find out the reality of each company’s readiness.

Their musketry was still not good enough. None of them were up to the old standard.

‘Twenty rounds rapid fire in one minute at three hundred yards. Fifty per cent on a man-sized target expected. Not good enough, none of them up to par’, he mused

They had all improved over the month. If they continued at the same rate, they would be acceptable by the end of July, just in time to go back to France for the autumn.

There was a noise of arrival, fuss and bother at the colonel’s door. A messenger called Richard to join the fun and saluting.

Fotherby was present resplendent in his new persona, crossed baton and star on the shoulder replacing the Colonel Commandant’s crown and three stars. The rank of Brigadier had not existed for some years but the Colonel Commandants, the men doing the job, were still unofficially and universally called by the title.

Richard made his best salute, the one reserved for generals, stiff backed and alert.

“Good to see you, Baker. Come on into the office.”

They sat and tea was provided, as was necessary before any meeting could commence.

“Got my own division now, gentlemen. Two brigades of infantry – six battalions; there will be artillery of some sort but no cavalry. All of them new units but predating Kitchener’s New Army. Volunteers from October and November who have been worked up to reasonable efficiency already and shouldn’t hang about in England for another year. Colonel Braithwaite, you have been promoted to take one of the brigades. Baker will go with you as a colonel – the two of you work well together. We are under Atkinson, who has been given his corps. All the old club together, you might say. We are based on Salisbury Plain for the next month, will be in France by the end of June, or so the current plan is. You are to join your commands as of the First of June – eleven days from now. I would suggest you take some leave and get down to Devizes for the last day of May. Details will be sent through channels, of course. You can put up your badges as of today. Congratulations, both!”

They made their thanks and Richard asked the identity of his battalion.

“It’s being called a Bedfordshire Battalion, though it has no actual connection to the county. Convenient for someone’s plan of organisation in the War Office, I expect. Might be in compliment to you, of course. The Eighth Beds you have, Colonel Baker.”

“I did not realise there were already seven others, sir.”

“Four here; two in the trenches; one on its way to Gallipoli. Be thankful that’s not you, Baker!”

“Is it as bad as they predicted, sir?”

“Worse! Once the Navy had cocked up the Dardanelles the sole sensible course was to pull out. They could have offered the troops to the Italians in their fight in the Alto Adige or to the campaign they are thinking about in Salonika or simply have sent them across to France. Anything rather than continuing to waste lives on a campaign that is doomed to failure. Don’t take a clever man to see that landing an army into a mountainous and waterless wasteland ain’t a sensible idea. Bloody Churchill! Man was born stupid and hasn’t improved with age! Believes in fairy tales, if you ask me. Not to worry! Your reliefs will be here with effect from tomorrow at nine hundred hours. Handover/Takeover tomorrow and off the premises after a final dinner. Work out how you are going to go about it today. Anything else? Must rush – I am supposed to be in the War Office for two o’clock.”

Braithwaite spoke up.

“For your information, sir. I expect to be married, special licence, next week, now we have the opportunity. You know my brother died in France a couple of months ago? I have inherited and instead of being a poverty-stricken younger son I am the owner of a tidy little estate and a reasonable income. Couldn’t get married on my old income. Can now and shall, sir.”

“Well done, Brigadier. My best wishes go with you. What of you, Colonel Baker? Saw you with Elkthorn’s girl, didn’t I?”

Nothing went unnoticed in Mayfair.

“You did, sir. I had just arranged to take a week’s leave to discuss my affairs with my father and seek his permission for a marriage. I have not spoken to Primrose yet and would appreciate some discretion for the while, sir.”

“Best she should hear from you not from some gossiping old bugger of a general, Baker? I agree. Mum’s the word!”

“I danced with a Miss Atkinson as well, sir. Was that the general’s daughter?”

“Yes. She was there. Wouldn’t want her for my son – not my idea of a young woman.”

“Nor mine, sir! I did not know that Primrose was, of course, until I spent some time with her. Got her head screwed on right, even if not in the ordinary way!”

“Never spoken to her, Baker. I wish you joy with her.”

“Thank you, sir. Do we know who is promoted in, sir?”

“Major and captain out of the Fourth Battalion, keeping it in the family. Don’t know either man, myself. They are on their way back from France today.”

No official announcement was made that day; long ears in the offices had heard all that was said and the changes were known to the whole battalion within the hour.

Sergeant Major O’Grady entered Richard’s office and requested a few minutes of his time.

“Is there a chance that I could be transferred to the 8th Beds, sir?”

“No, ‘Major. Couldn’t be done officially. However, a request might be made on compassionate grounds, due to your old mother being located in Devizes and on her deathbed. An exchange might not be impossible. If it can be done, it will be, I assure you. I will speak to Brigadier Braithwaite now.”

“Sure and I’ll pack me bags now, sir. Between the pair of you many things can be organised, I am sure.”

Richard went next door, where Braithwaite was frantically bringing his paperwork up to date.

“O’Grady? He’s Irish! How does he have a mother in Devizes?”

“Easily, sir, being as we want him to.”

“You’ll get us both hanged, Baker! I’ll speak to Fotherby. What do I tell him when he asks the real reason?”

“The truth, sir?”

“Not in the Army. Bad habit to get into! Might have to… A damned good leader of men provided he is cared for properly. A hopeless, violent drunk if he is left on his own. Add to that, Colonel Baker wants him and Baker is still very young and needs a hard man to back him up. It might just work… I’ll buttonhole Fotherby at soonest.”

“Fotherby will do it on compassionate grounds, Baker. He requires a letter from a padre to back up his file.”

“A padre? Military chaplain sort of thing?”

“That’s right.”

“Never seen one of those, sir, except on Sundays when they have church parade, which I always duck for being too busy. Anyway, isn’t the padre a Church of England sort? I know O’Grady is a Catholic; must be, being a Sinn Feiner.”

“Is he? That I did not know!”

“I don’t think he’s too serious about it. From all I gather, it’s an excuse to thump Proddies on high days and holidays. Paisley is on the opposite side and is of the same persuasion – most of the time it adds a bit of fun to boring lives. Just occasionally it gets political and then the bullets fly.”

“Bloody Irish! If it wasn’t that it would be taken over by the French or the Germans we should give the place independence and get the Paddies off our backs. They would still sign up to the Army, needing the wages. Where were we? A padre, that’s it. Better I should do that, Baker – you might not know how to deal with that sort. You can’t shoot them or blow them up, you know!”

Richard managed a sickly smile.

Two days later he sat in his compartment on the short journey up the line to Kettering. He had a headache from the Mess farewell of the previous evening and was not at his best. Paisley was back in the Third Class carriages with his baggage and he wondered how his father would react to his son appearing with a servant in tow. If need be, he would put him up in the hotel in Kettering, though that would be embarrassing.

They found a horse and carriage at the station, motor taxis all off the road for lack of fuel and the absence overseas of their mostly young drivers. An ancient pensioner was making a living with a geriatric nag, both just capable of the mile out to the house.

“Mr Richard! Do come in, sir. Is that your personal man behind you, sir?”

The male servant, not a butler for lack of training, was old now and poor of sight.

“I shall put him up in the quarters, sir. There is space there due to two of the maids going off to the factories that pay so much better, sir. Mr Baker is at the works, sir and Mrs Baker is laid down for her sleep. Your sisters are both in the house, sir.”

“I shall go through then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paisley followed, heaving the suitcases and the trunk into the hallway.

Victoria appeared, drawn by the protracted noise at the door.

“Richard, we did not know you were to come home.”

“Sudden change of orders, Vicky. I am promoted and have my own battalion, the Eighth. I am to take them over next week. For the while, there are matters to discuss here.”

“Oh, well come in and sit down, Richard. I shall call for tea. Is that a soldier I see?”

“My batman, Paisley. He is assigned to my service now. As a colonel, I must maintain a little state.”

“Colonel! I did not see… How do you become a colonel at your age, Richard?”

Victoria was very much the big sister, wondering just what her little brother had been up to.

“I am uncertain, my dear. I wish I knew.”

He followed into the bigger drawing room, found Alexandra cutting out a dress on the big table.

“Where are the pins, Vicky! I have lost the pins!”

“Behind you dear, on the left. Richard is home and is made a colonel now.”

“Oh! Why is that?”

“A reward for virtue, sister! Why are you making up your own dresses now?”

“I am trying to be economical, brother. If I am to wed a farmer then I must dress myself from my own needle. I am less inclined towards marriage just now, I must say! Why are you here, Richard?”

He explained in detail.

“Ah, I see. You are in between, one might say.”

“In part, sister. More importantly is that I wish to confer with our father about my future. I am not yet of age and require his permission for certain matters, despite being a colonel with command of more than eight hundred men. A foolish way of doing things!”

His younger sister was not the brightest of young ladies, had to think long on what permission he might require.

“Are you to wed, Richard? How jolly! Who is the young lady? Is she nobly born?”

“She is, but her name must remain mine until I have spoken to our father.”

Richard’s mother appeared, refreshed from her nap.

“Is that you, Richard?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I thought it was… Are you here for the holidays?”

“I am no longer a schoolboy, Mother.”

“Oh, no, I remember now. You have become a soldier, which is very strange for I quite thought you were to sail. At sea. In a ship.”

“I could not get on in the Navy and became a soldier instead. Now I have been promoted colonel and have my own battalion.”

“Oh! Fancy that! A colonel… that is higher than lieutenant, is it not?”

“Yes, mother. I have command of a whole battalion, some eight hundred officers and men. I am to take them to France at the end of next month.”

“Oh! That will be July, almost, will it not? Are you not to be home for your birthday? I had thought we might have a party for your twenty-first.”

“No, Mother. I am afraid the needs of the war must come first.”

“So they must… Has it not finished yet? It seems to have been going on for a very long time.”

“No, Mother. It will last a lot longer yet, I am much afraid.”

“Oh. I have heard that a lot of young men have been killed, Richard. Would it not be better, far safer, were you to resign and come home instead?”

Victoria intervened.

“That is not possible, Mama. The King would not let him.”

There was little point to mentioning the government.

“Well, I think that is jolly unkind of him. Richard has that medal, you know. Is not that sufficient for one man?”

“No, Mama. It shows that he is a good soldier and must go to war for his country.”

“I shall speak to your Papa. He will know what to do about it.”

That was unanswerable.

“Will Father be home at six, as normal, Vicky?”

“It will take more than a war to alter his ways, Richard. Home for six and dine at half past. Will you take tea with us now or are you in the habit of drinking something more manly these days?”

“Tea, if you please, Vicky. The whisky bottle offers too many temptations. I do not touch the stuff other than I must. There are men in the trenches who depend on the bottle, I much fear. I will not become one of them.”

“You have grown up, Richard. You are a man now.”

“There is no place for boys in this war, Vicky. What of you? Are you active in any way?”

“No. I have been thinking of joining one of the Women’s Services. Papa has permitted me to learn to drive now that there are no taxicabs and we cannot keep a chauffeur to take Mama into the shops. I could become a driver in FANY. Alex could take my place here.”

“She could. Perhaps you should. You are of age and your own woman now. There is a need for drivers and you could free up a man to carry a rifle. The idea of the auxiliary nursing yeomanry is one of the best to have come up. We have lost enough men that we will soon be short of willing volunteers and women must go out to release more to fight.”

“I do not think Papa will approve… I need not tell him, of course.”

“You could live at my house if you are made unwelcome here, Vicky. I will need to buy for myself if all goes as I hope.”

“I will take you up on that, Richard. I cannot continue here, reading the newspapers and seeing the black-bordered lists grow longer every day. When will it end, Richard?”

That, he could not say.

“Not this year, my dear. I do not know how it shall come to a favourable conclusion. We shall fight on and hope that the leaders of all of the countries involved may some day see sense. I doubt that – they are politicians, after all!”

Dinner was unchanged; there was no sign of the food shortages that had been rumoured to exist. The soup was still brown and the roast beef overdone but all was available in plenty. The three women withdrew and Richard begged speech with his father.

“I wondered why you were here, boy… No, change that. I am sorry, you are very much a man now. A colonel! Before you are of age, by God! Come into my workroom. We can talk there.”

The study had unpleasant connotations; Richard had never been in there as a boy other than to be hauled over the coals for his many transgressions. He sat in the comfortable chair opposite his father, glass in hand, choosing his words.

“I have met a girl, a young woman, Father, who I wish to wed. Primrose Patterson, daughter to Lord Elkthorn. He is a member of the government and wealthy, I am told. The word is that his father was in South Africa in the middle of the ‘80s and almost accidentally became involved in the Gold Rush on the Witwatersrand. I don’t know the details but somehow he ended up as a major shareholder in more than one mine.”

The older man whistled.

“You are talking millions there, Richard! A sensible conquest!”

“I hoped you would think so, Father. She is a lovely girl – not in the ordinary way, either. Clever, not some empty-headed deb. I think she would take me. I haven’t spoken to her or her father, needing to know how I would be fixed first. I could live on a colonel’s money, I think. I had rather not try to keep up a house and a wife on my pay alone.”

“Could you do better than her, financially, Richard?”

“Possibly. I don’t know. I don’t intend to find out, unless she turns me down, of course.”

“Well said. You will inherit forty-nine per cent of the firm. That leaves the majority in the control of your cousins. They will run the business between them. The girls will get money but no shares in the firm – none of their business, working in iron and steel. I am buying into other works, by the way, north of here. Kettering ain’t the best place for iron no more. No matter, you won’t ever be part of the working of the business. It will be worth a couple of millions in your pocket if, as I think sensible, you sell up your share. Your cousins could take up a loan and buy you out. Deal with that when I kick the bucket, which ain’t going to be yet for a few years!”

Richard smiled – the Old Man seemed strong and good for another twenty years at least.

“For an income? I will buy you a house – big and proper for a posh family. A bit of land, but not much – you ain’t in the farming way. No bloody money in the Land, not no more! You’ll need a couple of thou’ a year to run that and I’ll add another three for your household and uniforms and such. Will you stay on as a soldier after the war?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. The way I’m going, I could make acting rank as a general by the end of the war. It’s got a few more years in it yet. I would drop back a few ranks when the war ended and the Army was cut in size. Might well finish up no more than a major and twenty years to get back to brigadier. I would still be young and well placed if there should be another big war. Possible that I could leave the Army and find a big job as a civilian. Chief Constable or something like that. If I marry Primrose, her father will have influence. Anything is possible – provided I live through the next years.”

“Good. At least you are thinking! Marry the girl with my blessing, Richard. Can we meet her before you go back to France?”

“You should, sir. I will try to make the arrangements. I will go back down to London on Monday and speak to Lord Elkthorn, see what he has to say. He might have other ambitions for Primrose. For that matter, she may give me the rightabout!”

“So she might. Everything up in the air until you have spoken to them. We are due to go out to a dinner tomorrow night. I’ll telephone old Farthing, see if there’s room at the table for you. Do me no harm to show you off, especially as a colonel and with the VC as well!”

“Farthing – can’t place the name, Father.”

“Moved in, bought a bigger house locally, four years ago. He owns one of the big boot and shoe places and has a bit of a farmhouse and a few fields as well. Making a mint with contracts for army boots just now. Got a son a bit older than you, might be interested in Alexandra. Better than that bloody farmer of hers!”

“Nobody interested in Vicky, sir?”

“No. Pity. Worth twice as much as Alex – brighter by far. Cleverer than you, for that matter.”

“So she is. What about encouraging her to join one of the Services? She could make a place as a woman officer. Could be a way of getting known.”

“No! Not right for a woman! Don’t care what they say, womenfolk have no business going off to war! Or leaving the house at all, for that matter!”

Richard shrugged and dropped the topic. Vicky would have to run away, it seemed.

Farthing was the epitome of the manufacturer’s son who had inherited the firm his father had created and lacked the old man’s abilities in almost every possible way. It was hard to go broke in wartime, government contracts being readily available and always overpriced, but Farthing was trying to achieve bankruptcy from all he said. The house was big and expensively ornamented with supposed Old Masters on the walls, all recently purchased.

Farthing himself was expansive and stupid.

“Managed to get hold of a genuine Rubens recently – guaranteed by the auctioneer! Paid a good few thousand for it. Wouldn’t have expected so many bidders at a country auction but I was not to be gainsaid – that painting was to be mine!”

Richard knew nothing of auctions but suspected that it would not be too difficult to arrange for false bidders to drive a price up. He congratulated Mr Farthing on his fortitude.

“Spent most of last week going off to another sale up in Scotland. Nothing much there when I got to it. Waste of time but there was a chance of something good. I manage to get to one place or another most weeks, you know, Colonel.”

It seemed that his factory saw him rarely.

“Thinking that my son ought to join up, Colonel. I suppose you would say he should, being a military man yourself.”

“I would hope that every healthy man of an age might serve his country, Mr Farthing. Not, I would add, necessarily in uniform. Our factories and farms must produce for the nation. We could not survive without them and some men must stay at home, more than go to war, actually. There is a need for young women to go to work or to volunteer for the services as well. Tens of thousands of casualties demand a mass of extra nurses in the hospitals. If your son is busy in the factory, better he should stay there. Soldiers cannot march without boots, sir.”

Farthing’s son had a pallid, weak look to him. Richard would not have fancied him as one of his officers, or as a husband for his sisters.

“Oh, young George is not to get his hands dirty in a mere factory, Colonel Baker! Better things to do than that, as have I! No, he is considering forgoing his leisure in London and putting on khaki in its place. I don’t know if you are aware of any senior man needing staff, perhaps? You are to be part of a new division, I hear.”

“Staff? I know little of that sort of gentleman, Mr Farthing. I am afraid my acquaintance is limited to fighting soldiers.”

Farthing suspected that to be a rebuke. He turned his attention to others of his guests.

“Miss Victoria! I do not know that you have visited my house before.”

“Miss Baker, more correctly, sir, being the elder daughter. No, Mr Farthing, I have not had the pleasure of accepting your hospitality previously. I know little of art, I fear, and have not seen a collection to match yours.”

Mr Farthing was sure that was a compliment. He introduced her to Mr George Farthing, sure that they would have much in common. Richard observed her to shake the young man’s hand with no signs of pleasure, treating it like something the cat had brought in. She did not rub her own hand dry afterwards, though showing some signs of searching for her handkerchief.

Dinner was long, rich, well cooked and accompanied by expensive wines.

“After your months in France, Colonel, you must be used to good cooking!”

“Well, no, Mr Farthing. In the trenches we normally eat tepid mutton stew, enlivened occasionally by bully beef and biscuit. More fortunate mortals have a mess to eat in. Those of us actually engaged in the fighting eat whatever is sent up to us, with no choice of victuals.”

“But, officers, surely…”

“We live with the men, in the front line and sharing their hardships for lack of alternative. The food ranges from the poor to the outright appalling, I am afraid.”

“Shocking, Colonel! Not for the men, of course, horses for courses and all that – they would not appreciate fine food if it was given to them. Stew will do for their palates! The officers must surely deserve to be treated better! I am amazed that a refined digestion should tolerate such stuff!”

“So am I, remarkably often, Mr Farthing. There is no alternative, however, and a glass of rum to wash it down, when that is available, does much to alleviate the flavour.”

Richard noticed young Mr Farthing to be horrified, suspected his military ambitions were receding.

“Will you be sent back to France soon, Colonel?”

The Reverend somebody or other, Richard had not caught his name, offered the question in a quiet voice, as if unused to speaking in the presence of rich company.

“In July, I believe, sir. The division is to take a part of the lines as its own, I am told. There is some prospect of another advance and we may be sent to tidy up a salient, or indeed create one, prior to the battle.”

“You seem almost happy at the prospect, Colonel.”

“Wrong word, sir. Never ‘happy’. Content to be where a man should be in these perilous days, perhaps. I have found myself, I would say, out in France. It is a shocking thing, sir, but the war has been good for me.”

The clerical gentleman was correctly shocked but too meek to say so. Richard presumed he was in some way obligated to Farthing and would say nothing controversial at his table.

The port circulated after the women withdrew, the eight men present coming together at the head of the table. Richard was introduced to three he did not know, one of them the Chairman of the Hospital Board, an ancient and long retired major of a lesser cavalry regiment.

“Strange war, this one, Colonel Baker. You cannot be thirty yet are a colonel!”

“Twenty, sir. Very rapid promotion in the trenches as the Army has expanded and so many officers have been killed or sent home unfit for further service. Many of the older men have fallen ill – consumption in all its forms and various other chest ailments. Good officers rendered incapable of service by standing in mud and water for weeks at a time. The trenches are mostly on lower ground and are appallingly unhealthy.”

“But, why is that so? Could we not have dug in on the hillsides?”

“The Germans got there first, sir. They chose their own ground, almost always higher than was left for us.”

“When will the breakthrough come, Colonel? When will it become a proper war?”

“It will not, sir. This is a war of guns and infantry, slogging it out in the mud. There is no place for the cavalry, none at all! A slow grind, sir, until one side or the other is exhausted – that is all I can see. We will attack again later this year, I do not doubt. Unless the artillery is massively greater, the attack will not succeed. There are aprons of barbed wire thirty yards across, sir. If the wire is not cut, the men cannot reach the German trenches. That demands big guns and many of them.”

“Then, surely the cavalry must be used to go around the trenches. They must be passed by!”

“How, sir? The trenches extend from the shores of the North Sea to the Swiss border.”

It was too difficult for the old gentleman. He knew only that wars were won by cavalry, the infantry holding the ground the horse had taken. That was the way wars were fought – there could be no other.

“Can this war be won, Colonel?”

A middle-aged man introduced as Doctor Harper, presumably of medicine.

“Not in the trenches as they stand now, Doctor. They are stalemate unless a new weapon is found. We shall try, and it is possible that we may strike lucky. Better to fight elsewhere, I suspect. An invasion across the North Sea might be a better idea or perhaps strengthen Russia so that armies could march in from the east. The war must be won, as goes without saying, but there may be better solutions than butting one’s head against a brick wall.”

The dinner party ended with the normal inanities of conversation in the drawing room – discussion of local issues the most important.

The Bakers left before midnight, normal in local society.

“Well, Richard, what did you think of young Farthing?”

“Overpriced, sir. He ain’t worth half as much!”

Vicky laughed; the old man was less amused; Alexandra spoke up to say that he was nasty, had clammy hands; Mrs Baker thought he was a commonplace young man who should be in the Army.

“Right. Can’t say I went much on him. Are you definitely going back to London on Monday, Richard?”

“I am, sir. I have a lot to do in the next week.”

“So you have. I will talk to Farthing on the telephone, suggest to ‘im that he sends his boy down to the War Office at the same time. You can pull a string or two to get him his commission, can’t you?”

“No, I don’t know the right people, Father. The soldiers I know are all on the fighting side, not the armchair warriors of the War Office. He can give my name as a sponsor, perhaps – I don’t know how it works, do you? Perhaps the best bet will be to talk to the Lord Lieutenant’s people – you know them, don’t you?”

“Aye. I had to deal with them to get the railway spur to the works through. Needed to persuade a couple of farmers to allow the line across their land. He did that, no worries. Cost me five hundred quid into his special fund, that was all. Farthing will get his help for the same, I expect. That’s the way things work, ain’t it?”

Monday morning saw Richard in Town and a note sent to Viscount Elkthorn asking to meet with him. The hotel messenger came scurrying back with an appointment for eleven the next day, at the Town House.

“Best uniform tomorrow, Paisley. Not Dress but everything of the smartest.”

Paisley said nothing, nodded and started to prepare a shirt for the occasion.

“Elkthorn is the father of Miss Patterson, Paisley.”

“Thought he might be, sir. Will you be living in Town or Country, sir?”

“Depends on what my father buys, Paisley. Country, I suspect, but my wife, assuming I am accepted, will make the decision. She will use the house far more than me in these next few years.”

The door was opened by a butler flanked by two footmen, neither of them beyond the age of military service. Richard did not approve of young men idling in England. He scowled at them.

“Colonel Baker, to see the Viscount.”

“Do enter, sir. You are expected.”

The footmen closed the big front door, one limping, the other possessed of one arm. Richard mentally apologised.

The butler led Richard to a large study, a drawing room converted to business use. There was a red Despatch Box on the table, informing the aware that the master of the house was occupied in government business. Lord Elkthorn rose and came around the expanse of mahogany to shake Richard’s hand.

“You are welcome in this house, Colonel. I must congratulate you on your promotion. What battalion now?”

“8th Bedfordshires, my lord. A new formation, just ready to go to France. I expect to take them out next month as part of General Fotherby’s division.”

“Very good! Take a seat, Colonel. A drink, perhaps?”

“Just tea, thank you, my lord. I do not imbibe of a morning – a bad habit for a young man!”

They laughed together and chatted about very little until the tea tray had arrived.

“To business, then, my lord. I have become rather close to your daughter Primrose, you may know, my lord. I would wish to ask you for her hand.”

“I thought that might be what it was, Colonel Baker. I would add that she has made it clear to me that she hoped you might appear on this mission. What can you tell me of yourself, beyond that everybody knows of you?”

Richard outlined his financial circumstances.

“A house and five thousand a year and the expectation of two millions? You could present yourself to any duke in the country and beg his daughter of him, sir!”

“I did not realise that to be so, my lord. Nor did I know before this weekend the extent of my father’s wealth. I would add that I want Primrose, not some unspecified High Society miss, my lord.”

“Then you must speak to her, Colonel Baker. I can have no objections – you are no mere adventurer in a scarlet coat!”

Miss Primrose was called and her father left the room, chuckling quietly, evidently more than satisfied by his daughter’s catch.

“Good morning, Primrose. Will you marry me? Simple and straightforward – I shall not attempt to explain why I ask – I hope you know my mind already, and your own. I will say that I am asking for love, not for any other interest.”

“Very military, sir! Should I stand to attention?”

He thought of a vulgar response, chose not to make it.

“I am afraid I have become a soldier and little else, this past year. I need a wife to civilise me, perhaps.”

“Then you must have one, Richard. I hoped you would ask me and am glad to accept you, for the same reason – affection, not the desire to wed with a rich ironmaster’s son. I am right about that, am I? All of the girls say you are born to a rich father but not to any blood. Or should I not mention that?”

Probably not, he thought, seeing no reason why she should change.

“You will meet my father and discover that he is short of breeding, in your sense. He is born to a line of ironmasters and has inherited their virtues. They do not include gentility.”

“Ah! I must be prepared for that. When should we marry, Richard?”

“Next year, if possible. I have to go back to France within weeks, I do not have any exact date. Once there, leave is uncertain and we must wait for the front to settle down. It is possible that the next offensive will produce a breakthrough and an end to the war. Pigs might fly! When we know, we will be able to make precise plans. For the while, I would hope to be able to take two or three weeks in late winter, when all is naturally quiet. For now, I believe we are permitted to celebrate our engagement, are we not?”

She agreed, enthusiastically, coming into his arms with no awkwardness at all.

Chapter Nine

“Hands to leaving harbour. Take her out, Mr Manvers-Porteous.”

Simon stood back from the helm, watching his new sublieutenant make a thorough-going cock of things. The coxswain was at the wheel and would ensure that Sheldrake hit nothing and he was ready to take command himself if disaster was close to striking. For the moment, just a word of warning.

“Watch the cross-current, now!”

Sheldrake was making a stern board to leave her mooring in the creek and point out to the harbour mouth. There was always a current of at least three knots which would take the stern if the officer in command was unready. Manvers-Porteous did not know what to do in a ship far smaller than he was used to. He ordered an extra fifty revolutions and began to give the coxswain precise helm commands, too little and too late.

“Belay that! Coxswain, steer for the harbour mouth. Up one hundred! Mr Manvers-Porteous, stand down. I have the watch.”

Simon caught Sheldrake before onlookers could notice her to wobble out of control and brought her out properly, saluting her seniors and making speed as soon as she was offshore.

“Course for Dunkerque, as normal. Take over again, Mr Manvers-Porteous.”

Simon delayed two minutes, watched the young man dither, his confidence broken.

“Ship is still in harbour routine, Mr Manvers-Porteous!”

“Oh, yes, sir! Resume watchkeeping. Crew to stern four inch and twelve pounder.”

It was good enough as a set of commands and presumably similar to the routine on Fearless. Habit on Sheldrake was to order the Gunner to carry on.

“See me in my cabin after your watch, Mr Manvers-Porteous. First Lieutenant to my cabin.”

Polly came in and shook his head.

“He has spent the last week doing what he was told and nothing more. He has made no attempt to pull his weight.”

“He can have a week of sea-going to settle in, Polly, provided he does not provoke me too far first. At the end of that he can be told his fortune.”

“His future will involve considerable discomfort if he does not do better…”

“Exactly! I will request a transfer to the Naval Brigade for the dear boy. Officers typically spend six months on that posting, or so it is intended. One hundred and eighty days in the trenches will do the poor chap some good; if he survives, he will come out with some idea of the nature of the unprivileged world.”

Five days later Simon sat in front of Lieutenant Commander Matthews in Blackbird, requesting a replacement for his new sub.

“Bone idle, sir! He will do what he is told and looks amazed when I suggest he might seek to find occupation for himself off watch. ‘Four hours on and eight off, is it not, sir? Apart from action stations and that comes every night without fail. A chap does need his sleep, sir.’ Hopeless!”

“Neither useful nor decorative, in fact, and we all know what those are, Sturton…”

“Tits on a bull, sir. Exactly!”

“I’ll speak to SNO Dunkerque, Sturton. What do you suggest for, what’s his name?”

“Manvers-Porteous, sir. Naval Brigade. We can put him in a car here and send him up to the lines in an hour. He will be equipped and attached to his battalion inside half a day. Do you recognise the name, sir?”

“No. It’s not Naval and I can’t place any politician with that moniker. You’re the man from High Society – do you know him?”

“Never heard of him, but I’m new to Mayfair, and don’t like it much. I would not know.”

“No great influence, I would think. We can stuff him without protest from on high.”

“A replacement, sir?”

“You can have any one of four mids. Make your Higgins up – I have had unofficial ‘intimations’ that he is due to rise in the world, irrespective of any merit he might possess.”

“Very well, sir. Draw one of the mids out of the hat and send him across, please. I will give Higgins the good news.”

“Mr Higgins, cabin!”

Higgins arrived at the double, wondering what he had done and then correcting himself – it must be something he had left undone, he knew he had done nothing wrong recently. He must be in trouble, there was no other reason to pull him into the cabin.

“Mr Higgins, take the patches off your collar and put a stripe on your sleeve. You are made sublieutenant as of midday today. Manvers-Porteous is going – say nothing to him but move into his cabin after he leaves – and you are to take responsibility for the midshipman who is about to arrive and will take over your hutch. Try to make him useful. I want him to gain his certificate quick time. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

He knew the correct answer.

“Good. You will take over the forward four inch, giving the Lewises to the new boy. I want you to work with the Yeoman as well, pick up some knowledge of signalling. That done, in a month or two, you will go to Mr Rees to learn the torpedoes. You are capable of being a useful officer, Mr Higgins, and you must work to turn yourself into a destroyer man in every way.”

“Thank you, sir. I shall write the mater a letter. She will be delighted!”

“Good. Send Manvers-Porteous to me, immediately, if you please.”

Manvers-Porteous was ten minutes in arriving.

“I asked for your immediate presence, sir!”

“Well, I came as soon as I could, sir. I was just eating an early luncheon, sir, and did not want my fried eggs to get cold and congeal.”

“Your captain is slightly more important than a fried egg, Mr Manvers-Porteous! When I order you to see me, I expect you to run! Not that it matters. You are posted out, young man, with immediate effect. Report to SNO’s office in fifteen minutes, with your baggage. Your replacement will need your cabin at soonest, so run!”

“What? Where am I going, sir?”

“Out of my sight to clear your bloody cabin and get off my ship! That’s where you are going – and you have only fourteen minutes left to report before you will be called Absent Without Leave and put before a court! Run!”

He ran and clattered down the brow five minutes later, carrying his own suitcases, much to his anger, Polly having refused him the services of a rating.

A young midshipman came trotting across the quay, a case in his hand and a duffel-bag across his shoulder. He ran up the brow, stopped by the sentry and evidently received permission to leave his bags at the side while he reported. Looking quickly about, he spotted Simon on the bridge and paced rapidly across to him, coming to attention and saluting smartly.

“Midshipman Waller, George, sir. Reporting to join.”

A quick glance made the boy about sixteen, shaving and well-grown although he was a long way from reaching man size. He seemed robust and possibly bright. He was glancing around with intelligent interest.

“Welcome aboard, Mr Waller. I am Captain Sturton. Mr Parrett is First. What was your last ship?”

“No ship, sir. I have been attached to SNO’s office since I was sent out last month, sir. Wartime intake, sir. We live at Hamble, sir, on Southampton Water, the yachting centre. My father has a boatyard there and I have sailed since I could walk, sir. I have crewed since I was ten, sir.”

“Good. You sound the right sort for destroyers. Welcome aboard. Mr Parrett will show you around.”

There was a good chance that the boy would very soon be useful to them; better far than the man he had replaced.

“Mr Higgins, have you moved into Manvers-Porteous’ cabin yet?”

“Oh! Should I do so now, sir?”

“Yes. Junior man gets the box to sleep in. You have moved up in the world.”

They sailed before dusk, Waller on the bridge by the starboard Lewises.

“Mr Higgins will show you how to load and fire the guns, Waller.”

“Beg pardon, sir, but there are a pair on a high-angle mounting at the SNO’s office, for air raids. I learned their basics there. Loading, firing, stripping down and cleaning, sir.”

“Good. As soon as we have an opportunity, you can demonstrate to my satisfaction. Were there any raids?”

“One last week, sir. Two small aircraft, though they seemed only to be observing, sir. They had no bombs. We shot at them. I do not know we scored any hits.”

“This war is changing, Waller. I wonder if we should have lookouts for aircraft.”

“I am told that the RNAS is to operate blimps along the coast, sir. Submarine chasing. I do not know if the Germans have any in addition to their Zeppelins.”

“Neither do I. Are you interested in the RNAS?”

“Too young, sir. They will not take volunteers below age eighteen.”

“Two years for you?”

“Twenty months, sir.”

“Good. You will be a sub, at least, by then. Promotion comes fast in the boats. Can you handle a rifle?”

“Haven’t had the chance to, sir.”

“I shall speak to Mr Rees. Useful for all of us to know. He can teach you sufficient to be safe in a boarding party. We are encouraged to attempt to board the enemy, though we have not yet done so.”

Polly was listening, intervened in the conversation.

“Latest orders, sir, from the Admiralty. Officers in small ships of the Harwich and Dover Patrol will carry sidearms, sir. Came through with today’s bumf.”

“What next? Mr Rees!”

The gunner came up from the waist where he was giving the torpedo crew practice on turning the tubes quickly to a precise bearing.

“Sir?”

“Admiralty order. All officers to carry sidearms. Issue revolvers and ammunition and ensure that all officers can carry the things safely and know which end the bullet comes out.”

Rees kept an admirably straight face.

“I am sure that can be done, sir. Mr Higgins first, I do not doubt.”

“I wonder why that might be, Mr Rees? This is Mr Waller, replacing the late and unlamented Manvers-Porteous. He will wish to discover much about the guns, I do not doubt.”

“Certainly, sir. I can teach him all he wants to know, and more perhaps.”

“Excellent! Mr Waller, take yourself to the cell we laughingly call your cabin – Mr Higgins will assist in the process of fitting you in, probably with a shoehorn. It’s not a punishment for being a mid, it’s literally the only space available. Destroyers are not designed to carry crews; the people have to be slotted in wherever they can find a few inches.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Waller had learned the first, most important lesson – smile at the captain’s little jokes and say ‘aye aye’.

Simon watched the boy grab his bags and disappear at the double.

“We might have gained on today’s changes, Polly.”

“Got rid of the village idiot and replaced him with a thinking human being, sir. All to the good! What are the orders, sir?”

As First Lieutenant, Polly had the right to know what was happening at any given time – if the captain caught a bullet then he would have to complete the tasks given to the ship.

“All we have is to patrol the coast looking out for activity, the four of us together. The possibility of submarines or minelayers is high, it seems. Almost a certainty of destroyers somewhere, though not necessarily where we are. Keep an eye out for Harwich ships who are going to be active out towards the Broad Fourteens and might stray onto our patch in a running fight. In other words – everything as normal, nothing specific. We are free to return to harbour if we take damage. Have you heard how Eldridge is getting on in Starling?”

“No moans from his Number One, sir. His officers seemed happy on the depot ship.”

“That’s good enough – if he was doing badly they would say so after a couple of drinks.”

Polly nodded.

“Staff car pulling away from SNO’s offices, sir. One moment.” He picked up his telescope. “Carrying a disgruntled sublieutenant, sir, off to make acquaintance with the Naval Brigade, I should imagine, sir.”

“He’ll suffer more than congealed fried eggs there, Polly!”

Simon told the tale, the reason why he had had to wait ten minutes at Manvers-Porteous’ convenience.

“He should have known better than that, sir. Perhaps that was why Fearless found him supernumerary, sir, were able to pass him across to us with no complaint. He’ll learn in the Brigade, sir, from all I hear – provided he lives. I am told their casualty rate is high, sir.”

“So I hear. A high price to pay for idleness, perhaps… Not my concern. I need an effective ship and cannot carry the lazy. Still…”

Polly could not see why he was concerned.

“It’s the Navy, sir, and we are at war. You know what they say, sir – ‘if you can’t take a joke, you should not have joined’.”

“He won’t be laughing after a day or two up in the trenches, Polly! Not to worry – make ready for sailing. I do not have a time yet.”

The half-section patrolled along the coast and then circled outside Dutch waters, peering about hopefully before returning with the dawn in case minelayers were coming home from their dirty business.

“Nothing, Polly. A blank day. How do we stand for oil?”

“Two thirds, sir. Another patrol before we take on fuel.”

“Good. All the new work still good after a first time out?”

If anything was at all loose, likely to rattle and bang, it should have showed up within the first few days.

“All good, sir. Including your cabin door?”

“Fixed on massive great bronze hinges. Not steel, why I know not.”

“Steel needs to be painted to prevent rust, sir. Can’t paint hinges without jamming them.”

“Well thought, Polly. Is that an aeroplane I see?”

They agreed it was and carrying black Maltese crosses. It passed by, an observer peering over the side, and pottered off, no doubt eventually to report seeing them.

“Pointless sort of thing, Polly. By the time they get home and make their report, we shall be twenty miles distant and either on course for Harwich or off to Dunkerque. No chance of making an interception even if they have ships ready and waiting.”

“If we had had a Vickers gun, on a high angle mounting, sir, we might have been able to shoot at it.”

“True. Where would we fit it?”

“Between the tubes, in the waist, on a sort of bandstand, sir?”

“Need two men for a crew and a storage space for ammunition… A lot of fuss on the offchance of seeing another one close to us.”

They moored up in the inner harbour, which gave opportunities to visit the market without having to bother with a boat. Simon took a short sleep and wandered off to see if there was anything worth purchasing, met Packer on his way back, well laden.

“Managed to get hold of a ham, sir. Smoked and looks good. Bit of Frog bread as well and some rolls of butter and a load of that manky cheese, sir. Got some of they Belgian sugar tarts what you like as well.”

“Well done! I’ll poke my nose about, see if there’s anything else interesting.”

“The chocolate seller ain’t there no more, sir.”

“Probably been shot by now, Packer. She was spying.”

“Pity. Made good chocolate. She should have stuck to that.”

There was apricot jam in earthenware jars, very tempting. Simon came away with two of them, a good four kilograms, having been assured that it would keep for months. He noticed that more of the sellers spoke some English now and that prices no longer seemed to leap at the sight of a British uniform. Perhaps they were finally more accepting of the foreign presence.

A week of dead patrols and early in the morning they came upon minelayers escorted by what seemed to be a full flotilla of destroyers. They fought under the flickering light of star shells, at low speed, circling the minelayers like a war party of raiding Red Indians, and shooting at anything that showed up, black on black in the night.

Simon stood tall on the bridge, trying to show unconcerned by shellfire from three different sources, spotted that Sheldrake was lying oblique to the four minelayers which had come into line astern in close order for better protection.

“Mr Rees, port quarter! Both tubes, fire when you are on!”

He called the coxswain to hold Sheldrake steady, watched as Rees yelled at his torpedomen and then fired both.

“Close the nearest destroyer, Coxswain! All guns that will bear. Lewises as well, Mr Waller!”

With a little luck, the torpedoes would be unnoticed under the gun attack, the destroyer would not call the change of course for them to pass through the line.

“Running time is up, sir…”

There was an explosion and one of the vaguely seen minelayers was brightly illuminated and then lost in a massive flash of light as the remainder of her cargo blew her apart. Seconds and the layer immediately astern exploded and sank, hit presumably by flying debris. Sheldrake tossed violently in the tidal wave resulting, the coxswain heaving her round to avoid the damaged destroyer crabbing across her path.

“Close her Coxswain! Mr Parrett! Make ready to board!”

Almost alongside and they saw that the German was down by the bows, going rapidly.

“Rescue survivors, Mr Parrett.”

They were alone, it seemed, the action disappeared in their wake. Simon spotted shells exploding a good two miles away. Even at slow speed ships going in opposite directions vanished quickly in the night.

“Coxswain, hold us to her stern.”

It was a risk – yet he could see movement and the sailors stood more chance of living if they did not have to jump into the sea in the night.

Two minutes of metal grating together and men bellowing.

“Got ‘em all, sir!”

“Pull away, Coxswain!”

A short time and Polly appeared on the bridge.

“Eleven ratings and an officer, sir. Their Gunner, I think. He has some English, said the bridge party all went down under our machine guns. The bows were stove in when the minelayers blew and they lost all the men in the forward parts. He has given his formal surrender, sir. Their first aid attendant – that’s what he called him – was on deck working on wounded there and managed to bring them aboard. I’ve got him busy in the wardroom, sir.”

“Good. Nothing like a few prisoners to show we have been active, Number One. No point to closing the location where the minelayers went down. They must be lost with all hands; nothing would have survived those explosions. Take a course to join the action, though it seems to have died down now.”

An hour and it was clear that everything was over for the night and the only logical course was to go home.

“Make out to sea another five miles and then take a circle back to Dunkerque, Polly. The new mines should be inshore of us then.”

Simon retired to his cabin and started on his report while it was still fresh in his mind.

They came into harbour at first light, spotting Starling and Grouse already in, tied up at the wharf. Lights flashed from SNO’s office and ordered him to join them.

“No sign of Blackbird, sir.”

“Time yet for her to come in, Polly.”

The Yeoman called out a signal.

“Captain Sheldrake report SNO, sir.”

Simon ran to the side, was first ashore, his report in his hand.

The Senior Naval Officer was accompanied by his staff, a pair of smart lieutenants, far too privileged ever to go to sea.

“Take a seat, Sturton. Matthews is gone. Blackbird went down with all hands in sight of Starling. Grouse lost her captain and First and was brought in by her sub. What happened? Eldridge reported a pair of explosions and thought it was in your area.”

Two minelayers and a destroyer more than made up for the loss of Blackbird. The night’s loss became a victory, much to the pleasure of the shore establishment. Telegrams were sent to the Admiralty to report on the successful action. Commodore Tyrwhitt was informed by wireless and recorded his delight at the news.

“Get yourself some sleep, Sturton. Take a party back to pick up your prisoners first. I’ll order an ambulance as well. March the unwounded back through the streets to the Provost office – let the locals see the evidence!”

News arrived in mid-morning. The SNO, a post-captain, had been promoted out with immediate effect, the victory sufficient to make him the man to fill a vacancy in the destroyers at Scapa Flow where he was to become Commodore. It was a mixed blessing – he had enjoyed life at Dunkerque where he had been widely believed to be keeping a local mistress. There were no luxuries of that sort at Scapa.

A Captain Goodwin was to replace him, could do so quickly for being with the Naval Brigade in Flanders.

Goodwin arrived two hours later, delighted to be back to the ‘proper Navy’. He came bearing gifts.

“Sturton? Good to see you. You are lieutenant commander with immediate effect and have the half-section. Return with Grouse and Starling to Harwich. You will be based there for a month or two while you pick up a fourth boat and get your half-section together. Well done. Bar to your DSC, as well. Mentions to all deck officers and the mid. You were considered for a Cross, I would add – you did well last night. If that destroyer had fought and you had been able to take her, you would certainly have made a VC. As it is, the Admiralty is pleased with you and the newspapers will carry your name and face, again. Is your First fit for command?”

“Very barely, sir. He should have another six months experience as premier. He will be good but he’s still raw. Even more than I am!”

“Risk it! I’ll put him up for Grouse. It will be popular, the press will like it and you can hold his hand for a month. Commodore Tyrwhitt can be given the wink to appoint an experienced first for him. Easy enough to find a man who knows how to run a ship but lacks the initiative to make a captain – plenty of them about and often happy to be number two rather than in charge. Strange, ain’t it?”

Simon could not comprehend such a person.

“You will be getting a new boat soon and Parrett can stay in Grouse and go off to the Med. Out of harm’s way there for a year while he settles into the job. All will be well! Sail for late afternoon, getting in at Harwich for the morning’s tide. Keep an eye out for Grouse when it comes to mooring her.”

“Very good, sir. Torpedoes, sir. Can I go into the yard for them this morning? Don’t like sailing without any teeth.”

“Make it so, Sturton. Grouse and Starling as well. Give Parrett the good news and send him across to Grouse at soonest.”

“Polly, you have Grouse. In command. Well done. Into the yard to pick up torpedoes as soon as Starling comes out; she will be following Sheldrake. Chop, chop, now! No time to waste.”

“Oh, but… Yes, on my way, sir!”

Polly ran, an incredulous grin surfacing.

“Packer! Sew up a half stripe on all my uniforms.”

Packer ran to obey. Simon trotted off to the bridge and took Sheldrake across to the torpedo wharf.

“Mr Rees! All yours. Do we need four inch or twelve pounder rounds? We are bound for Harwich overnight, should remain there for a few weeks while we work up Blackbird’s replacement. Half-stripe to the funnel, if you please. Polly is made into Grouse and I don’t know when a new Number One will arrive.”

It went without saying that Higgins could not step up into Polly’s place, even temporarily.

“Congratulations, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Rees. Yeoman!”

“Sir?”

“We have the half-section. Do you need any extras in the way of communications?”

“A rating, sir. Could do with another pair of eyes to watch each ship for signals. Save a second or two that way, sir.”

“Good. Talk to the new First when he arrives. Mr Higgins, Mr Waller!”

The two ran to the bridge.

“Just showing Mr Waller the twelve pounders, sir.”

“Quite correct, Mr Higgins. Congratulations to you both on last night’s showing. You each have a Mention. While I think of it, Mr Rees, so do you.”

They were pleased, Higgins especially so.

“I shall write home immediately, sir. The mater will be delighted!”

It would seem that she frequently was.

“So am I. Did I see you on the port Lewises, Mr Higgins, while Mr Waller had the starboard?”

“Yes, sir. The bridge lookout broke his arm when the wave hit us, so I took them for him.”

“Well done! Where is he? I did not see him go down to the wardroom for treatment.”

“No, sir. He tied his arm up and tucked it into his shirt and stayed on duty until we came in. Mr Parrett sent him off to the hospital while you were away, sir.”

“We sail this afternoon, so he will probably not get back aboard. I will make sure SNO is told the story. Good man!”

The bridge messenger ran a note across to SNO before they sailed and came back with the answer that the man in question would be ‘looked after’.

“By the way, Higgins, I did not congratulate you on your initiative in taking over the Lewises. That’s the sort of thing I like to see in a young officer. It tells me that you’re making the grade, young man!”

Simon shook his head – he sounded the pompous old salt speaking to his grandson, not to a youngster barely two years his junior.

‘Getting old before me time!’

He gave orders for making ready to sail.

“Yeoman – Starling and Grouse to conform.”

That was his first order to the other ships – he was actually in charge of another one hundred and forty men and two more ships and soon to have a third added. There was much to be said for the Navy! He thought then that Baker had a whole battalion, more than eight hundred under his command – he had a way to go to match that man. His lady was prettier, though, even if not quite as intelligent as Baker’s. He grinned as he wondered just how turbulent a marriage Baker might have; he suspected he would be content with Alice.

Leading, first in line, two other ships, soon to be three, obedient to him. It was heady stuff, slightly lessened by having to stand watches in the absence of a Number One. That would be for a few hours only, he expected.

Into Harwich, mooring up in the creek, all as normal.

“Signal, sir. Captain Sheldrake report to Commodore.”

As expected.

“Boat, Mr Waller!”

The boy ran, still new and taken by surprise by the order. The Coxswain had mustered his crew already and they were alongside and waiting for him.

Simon said nothing; the Coxswain was willing to give Waller a hand, evidently thought the boy was worth helping.

Commodore Tyrwhitt was welcoming, glad to see another decoration for Simon, pleased with his promotion, sure he brought nothing but good to the Navy.

“Don’t get comfortable, Sturton! Sheldrake is posted to the Med. You are not. You will have Lancelot as section leader with three other ‘L’ Class boats. Harwich Patrol still, working out of Harwich more than Dunkerque. Take over when she comes in tomorrow. What about young Parrett? A bit junior to take one of your boats, I would think.”

“Too inexperienced for Grouse, in my honest opinion, sir. He will do better in the Med, learning for six months. Bring him back to the Patrol at the end of the year, sir.”

“Right enough! The boy’s a friend of yours, is he not?”

“He is, sir. His sister something more than that, on the quiet, sir.”

“Better not to marry too young in the Navy, Sturton!”

“Not till I make commander, sir.”

“At the rate you are going, that might not be too long, Sturton!”

“I have been lucky, sir.”

“You have. Deserving as well. Work your section up and be ready to take them out to the Broad Fourteens next week. Won’t be much going on there. Just a patrol for two or three days for the exercise. Two weeks after that, back on the Belgian coast, see what’s what around Zeebrugge again. What we have in mind is to bombard not so far from Ostend and have a small force – you – in ambush outside Zeebrugge in the hope that something will come down the coast.”

“It could work, sir.”

“Worth trying.”

Tyrwhitt called in the newspapers at that point – photographs and the normal meaningless questions, an hour wasted before they were chivvied out to their train.

“Necessary, Sturton. Christ alone knows why!”

“It amuses the Admiralty, sir. Ours is not to reason further than that.”

“No more it is, Sturton. On that topic, you will be glad to know that dear little Mr Higgins is to follow you aboard Lancelot. By order from above! There is much delight that he has a genuinely earned Mention. You need a mid, Lancelot’s boy showing too frail for the boats. Do you want the lad you’ve got just now?”

“Waller? Yes, he’s good. A Mention in his first week at sea has delighted him, of course, and he will work even harder now. Sub by autumn, I would expect. He’ll serve to push Higgins as well, always breathing down his neck. What’s the Gunner like on Lancelot, sir?”

“Don’t know. I have been told nothing of him, which suggests good enough and no more. Is your man a favourite?”

“Rees? Rock solid, sir. Knows it all and will lend a hand wherever he can. Well liked in the boat – a good officer. I would like him, sir – make up for having to have Higgins!”

“I shall send the orders later today. Sheldrake will have new officers who have come down from Scapa, given the chance to alternate with the rest of the world. A winter aboard a destroyer in Scapa is a hardship for any man – they deserve a rotation. They will come aboard with the First Dog – always a convenient time to make a change.”

“I will have my cabin empty, sir.”

“Best if you can. Very quick handover – McDonald knows his way about a boat, won’t need much, and he has his own First with him. I will send out a sub and a mid from the base here. Gunner to come from Lancelot tomorrow, of course.”

An hour of wider-ranging discussion of the war in the North Sea and Simon was sent back to Sheldrake where he begged permission to enter the wardroom, squeezing himself in and closing the door for official privacy. Every word they said would be heard by a dozen nearby hands but they had to show willing.

“First, gentlemen, we have done very well and we are all well-loved, for the while. The newspapers will tell us we are heroes tomorrow.”

The steward poked his head in.

“Tea, sir?”

“Please.”

They waited for the mugs to arrive.

“Right, gentlemen, now for the news. I have been given Lancelot as section-leader. My replacement arrives with the First Dog.”

They congratulated him on moving to a bigger boat.

“Secondly, Sheldrake is off to the Med.”

Warmer and quieter. Far from home. Swings and roundabouts, nothing they could do about it.

“Third, none of you are going with her.”

They showed interested, wondering what the Admiralty had in store for them.

“Mr Rees, you are to take over as Lancelot’s Gunner, at my request.”

“That’s good of you, sir. Thank you! Four tubes, two twins. Three four inch QF and a forecastle high enough that the forward gun can normally be used. A Maxim as well. Has she got Lewises, do you know, sir?”

“I hope so – they have shown useful. If not, I shall ask for them while I am still the blue-eyed boy.”

They laughed, accepting that it was not a joke.

“Mr Higgins, you will follow me, as will Mr Waller. Again, at my request.”

That was not quite correct but Higgins might be the better for believing that his captain wanted him.

“Being a bigger boat there is another sub as well as the First Lieutenant, the existing men in the posts. I know nothing of seniority but you are likely to be junior, Mr Higgins, being newly promoted. Lancelot is a faster boat, if only by two knots, and has a greater endurance than Sheldrake and we can expect to be out for three or four days at a time, on occasion. Clear your cabins and be ready to leave for the depot ship and eat dinner there.”

It would take a bare ten minutes to pack their bags, life on Sheldrake being Spartan.

Three men came aboard in mid-afternoon, the new First and sub and mid together. Each carried a duffle bag and a pair of suitcases, needing the extras to carry their Mediterranean uniform.

They saluted and introduced themselves and showed all the demeanour of men released from prison.

“Bloody Scapa! No sunshine in winter. The wind never stops blowing. Cold, wet and miserable and unchanging. Bad on a big ship. Bloody impossible on a destroyer! Now we’re off to the Med! Don’t care what we’re doing or why! The Med!”

The officers going to Lancelot showed sympathetic, tried not to show thankful that they had escaped both Scapa and the pointless patrols that seemed likely in the Mediterranean.

“Bit of a crack ship, Sheldrake, of course! Made a name for herself this last few months. We’ll try to keep it up.”

They tried to be polite.

Captain McDonald arrived to the second of four o’clock and proceeded through a rapid takeover.

“The Commodore tells me you are to stay here at Harwich, Captain Sturton. I rather fancy the Med! Anything I should know about the ship?”

“Very little, McDonald. She is in good order, though getting old for a boat. The Chief ERA is good, can often pull a little extra out of the hat when you need it. The Coxswain is one of the best, the rest of the hands reliable with only one bad hat among them – and he has been quiet these last few weeks. You have a very good Leading Hand working to the Gunner, will probably make Gunner’s Mate in a year or two. All in all, Sheldrake is in good condition. I have been lucky in her.”

“DSC and bar doesn’t say ‘luck’ to me, Sturton! I hope I can do as well for the ship as you have.”

It was all very gentlemanly, and rather pointless, Simon thought. He glanced down into the boat, saw Packer there with his bags, ran down to the sound of the pipes.

An hour later and he was sat in the depot ship, glass in hand, relaxing and waiting for dinner.

“Does anybody know anything about Lancelot?”

“Unlucky ship, Sturton. You’ll have to turn her around.”

He settled down to listen to the tale.

Chapter Ten

“The announcement is made, Richard. It is in the columns of The Times. The Thunderer has spoken from on high! ‘A marriage has been arranged between Miss Primrose Patterson, daughter to Lord and Lady Elkthorn, and Colonel Richard Baker, VC, son to Mr and Mrs George Baker of Kettering.’ All in the most official form, sir!”

Primrose’s gleeful smile faded; she looked sideways at Richard, wonderingly almost.

“I never really thought I would see those words in print, not for me, Richard. Always the odd one out – ‘poor old Primmers, far too blue for her own good, don’t you know!’ All the ‘gels’ were united in that opinion. ‘Never catch a husband if she did not mend her ways and put those books away – can’t dance, either.’ Ha! You have shown them, Richard!”

“So I have, Primrose – and with the greatest of pleasure! By the way, your mother seems to have little to say to me. Does she disapprove?”

“No, not at all! It is merely that she did not expect me to make a match at all and she does object to having her little world upset. She had quite made up her mind that I was to be the companion of her old age and now she has to find another for that post. My father is ten years her elder so she expects some years of widowhood – which she will not object to, at all. I believe that I have no brother because of her decision that she would not go through another pregnancy and birth, neither of which she enjoyed. She banished poor Papa from her bedchamber many years ago. I believe he has another female – I will not call her a lady – established in a little cottage in St John’s Wood – quite the place for such things. He is not too disturbed because the son of his favourite brother will succeed to the title and all will be well there.”

Richard was entertained to hear the family scandal so candidly laid out – it was typical of his Primrose!

“Do you not feel aggrieved that the title cannot descend to you, Primrose?”

“No – was I a suffragette then I might be, I suppose… I am not one of them, however. Mostly because Papa is a political figure, in a lesser way, and I have met so many of the breed and cannot like them at all! Now, of course, there is this little beast Lloyd George who seems to spend the bulk of his life with his trousers about his ankles in the hope that any female may come close. A surprisingly large number do, one is told!”

Richard was not au fait with political gossip, had not heard that of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. He was surprised, but not greatly; every politician was a grubby beast in the military eye. It amused him to discover that he was a military man now.

She continued in her musings, aloud, as always.

“The money is a different matter, of course. The land must go with the title – not a huge, great deal of it and covered in farmers and such. A few thousands of acres but not one of the enormous estates… Not my idea of a way to spend one’s life. I believe Cousin Alfred, who is the heir, desires nothing better than to don a pair of gaiters and wade out into the mud of the jolly Shires… A very agricultural sort, dear Alfred!”

“Has he not joined the Colours?”

“No – blind as a bat! So short-sighted he could never lead a platoon in any direction at all. Best he should stay at home and grow potatoes and pigs. Like poor young John Kipling – bottle-glass spectacles. At least his father has no patriotic reputation to maintain and will not force him into the Guards!”

Again, Richard had not heard the story. On being told, he disapproved.

“The Guards will not permit young Kipling to wear spectacles on duty, you know, Primrose.”

“Then the poor boy will not see five feet in front of his nose. A disgrace!”

“I am glad to hear Cousin Alfred has a father who cares more for him than for his own name!”

“I had thought you might approve of every young man going off to war, Richard?”

“No. Not if he cannot honestly do so. We need men in England as much as we require bodies at the Front. More so, perhaps – we cannot fight without the factories to make our guns and shells. And aeroplanes and ships, thinking of it. It is wrong to force the incapable to battle. Pointless, too – they will only die without achieving anything. If Alfred cannot see without his spectacles, then it is entirely right that he should work in England and grow our food. Has he fields to cultivate himself before he inherits?”

“Yes, or so I believe… As I understand the matter, Papa gave the management of our lands to his brother. He acts as our agent, not so much for the income – he is well off in his own right, my grandfather having been very rich – as for love of the Land. Alfred has grown up on the estates and since he has fallen into line for the inheritance, has come very much to regard them as his own.”

“A good thing for the family.”

“Yes indeed, Richard. Papa has spoken with me about the Will, thinking I would be a spinster lady for not ‘taking’ in Society, and I am to have much of the money but none of the land except for a house somewhere in Hampshire. The place was inherited from some sort of maternal connection a few years ago – a great aunt or somesuch – and has a few acres of parkland as well as a dozen or two of bedrooms and will make a fine country residence for the family. Has Papa discussed finances with you?”

He had, of course, approving of Richard’s family’s financial status and detailing the money that would come with Primrose – a large amount, in his eyes.

“What I have in mind, Primrose, is to put all of your income in your name. Sort of a trust fund. That way, if I am killed – which can happen to a soldier – you will be independent and well off without having to rely further on your father or mine.”

She had not really considered the possibility of his death – that happened to other men, not to him, surely.

“Less chance of being killed as I rise in the ranks, of course. As a colonel I cannot be going out on raids, or only sometimes, and will not be spending all of my days in the trenches. I will still be exposed to some extent. I cannot sit tucked away in a safe dugout a mile distant from the line. There will always be a chance that I may be unlucky.”

The reality of being a soldier’s wife came home then. Always to worry, to wonder why no letter had arrived in the past days, to scan the newspapers for reports of action on his section of the trenches…

“It is silly to tell you to be careful, is it not?”

“Very! I am what I am for not being a cautious sort, Primrose. Was I careful, then I would still be a second lieutenant and would never have met you. My life would be far less than it is now. Less happy, less worthwhile. I carry this ribbon on my chest because I chose not to be careful of my life. A wise decision it transpires, for giving me access to Mayfair and to your existence.”

She was still surprised that he had selected her from the many to be his bride – she had long known she was no matrimonial catch, except to a poor man, which he was not.

“Why me, Richard? You have never said why, you know.”

He laughed and shook his head.

“I cannot say, Primrose. I do not know, not in so many words. I met you and liked you. I met you again and found I was looking forward to seeing you. I met you a third time and discovered that if I had not, the evening would have been wasted. Now, much to my delight, you are part of my life. I think that means I love you. I know it means that I cannot wish to live without you. But why, what particular element, one might say, of your character and being is so important to me? I do not know! You are clever and open and witty and sometimes wise. You are attractive to look at – more than that, you are exactly what a girl should be, to my mind. You are you. I am thankful and pleased that you have chosen to accept me. I much trust you will feel the same when you have met my family. Father cannot come to Town this week – there is something going on at the Works relating to a contract for the Army and that he must be present for, rightly. We have it in mind to arrange for me to come down from Devizes and for the families to meet of a weekend before we go out to France. Two weeks from Saturday, if that works for you.”

She was sure it could be made to work.

“What are we to do tonight, Richard? There is some sort of engagement, I know. I don’t remember what.”

“A Musical Evening for the troops, my dear. We are to attend and listen to Elgar for sure and probably Vaughan Williams and will tell all the dowagers how fine it is.”

She agreed, less than enthusiastically.

“We shall have to stand and sing, all of us together, I do not doubt. ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ will be inevitable!”

He feared she was right.

“Jolly patriotic, as is only right in these times of peril. Still, if it gets the idlers of Mayfair to dig into their pockets to purchase comforts for the troops, then it cannot be too great a hardship for us. I presume there will be much in the way of congratulations on the engagement?”

“They will have seen the announcement and will observe the ring – which I still consider to be little short of vulgar, Richard!”

They stared at her left hand and the rock on her ring finger.

“However much it may have been my grandmama’s and left by her directly to me in the hope that I would be able to wear it one day, it is still monstrous!”

“It is a wonderful stone, my love. It is perhaps of a size more fitted for the Crown Jewels than for a less royal lady. It cannot be missed, that is a certainty!”

She grinned.

“Poor little Primrose making herself known to the world?”

“Even so! Do you think you should change your name – Primrose becoming Primula to fit your new dignity?”

She laughed but decided the flower of the fields would do for her.

“I am no cultivated beauty, Richard!”

“You are in my eyes, my love.”

They dined with the Elkthorns and then proceeded, all four together, to Lady Aberdare’s charity function, to be attended by all of the rank and beauty of Society, and by the newspapers who would record their remarkable generosity and devotion to the troops.

The band of the Grenadier Guards provided the music, all British, which reduced the number of compositions available, and all notably patriotic, as was to be expected. The music lasted no more than two hours, including the interval, which was quite long enough to establish the cultural credentials of the audience. The guests mingled at a buffet for some hours afterwards.

Primrose enjoyed the evening far more than she had expected, her fiancé at her side and receiving the congratulations of her contemporaries, none of whom could quite comprehend her good fortune. How ‘little Primrose’ had scooped the prize of the Season was beyond the understanding of all – there were several competitors equally rich and much more handsome – but they were far too polite to say so.

“Primrose, my dear! I must congratulate you and wish you so very happy! And you, Colonel Baker, to have carried away your prize before us all!”

Richard wondered what that might mean, but it sounded very sincere. He allowed Primrose to reply for them.

“Why, thank you, Amanda! I am sure we shall both enjoy our lives together.”

They smiled so sweetly at each other that Richard wondered if they would actually descend to hair pulling, relaxed as Miss Atkinson retired into obscurity.

“I say, Primrose, do you dislike her that much?”

“Tall, blonde, athletic and beautiful! And always so jolly kind to little Primmers! The cow!”

He started to laugh, did his best to control himself – his beloved was in no joking mood. They turned to the next of the many coming within their orbit, smiling their best.

Richard left London for Devizes, a small country town made important by its location on the western edge of Salisbury Plain, the home of the Army. There were a dozen barracks and training grounds close to or actually in the town which was otherwise distinguished by a large brewery and the headquarters of the County police force and little else.

The 8th Beds were in a camp a mile distant from the town centre, out on the edge of the downland, ideally placed for route marching and with a rifle range just yards from the barracks huts, all very convenient for a new battalion. Richard knew the buildings to be new; they would be cheap, barely waterproof and little else to be said for them.

Richard left the railway station, Paisley at his side, and looked about him. He had sent a telegram informing the adjutant which train he would be on and expected transport to be waiting.

“Colonel Baker, sir?”

A second lieutenant stood by a staff car, a wagon and two horses behind them for Paisley and the mass of baggage essential to a colonel.

Richard accepted the boy’s salute.

“Tolstoy, sir. Please to enter the staff car, sir.”

“Thank you. Is that an English name, Tolstoy?”

“The name is not but I am, sir. My father left Russia before I was born, sir. We are some sort of cousin to the Count, the author, sir. My father fell out with the Tsar, why I do not know, and we came to Britain, sir. We will be staying, as well – not welcome back in Russia.”

“Very good. As long as you are English, little else matters, does it?”

“No, sir.”

“How long have you been in, Tolstoy?”

“Four weeks, sir, since my birthday. I joined as soon as it was legal, sir.”

“Well done. Enjoying the life?”

“Mostly, sir. I liked being a Cadet at school, sir, and wanted to be a soldier even before the war. I was to apply to Sandhurst, sir.”

“Even better! You sound like the sort we want.”

“I hope so, sir.”

They reached the gate and a full guard drawn up to welcome the new colonel. Richard stepped out of the car and was greeted by an elderly captain.

“Hawkeswill, sir. Adjutant.”

“Thank you, Mr Hawkeswill. Shall we have a look at the guard?”

“Sir! Our new Sergeant Major O’Grady, sir.”

“We have met, Captain Hawkeswill. Good to see you here, ‘Major. When did you arrive?”

“I was posted three days since, sir.”

“Good. Let’s see the guard.”

“Sergeant Keane, sir, B Company.”

The sergeant snapped to a salute – very smart, as was to be expected of an old soldier, well into his thirties. He was wearing the Military Medal.

“Boer War, Sergeant Keane?”

“Boxers, sir. Battalion was in Hong Kong, sir. Marched from the Taku Forts to Peking, sir.”

“Good. In this war?”

“Wounded in the Ypres Salient, sir. Sent back in October. Fit for service since April, sir.”

“Picked up the MM at Ypres, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Have you considered going for a commission, Sergeant Keane?”

“Not thought of it, sir.”

“Then do so. There is a need for good men with experience to become officers. I will encourage any man who thinks himself capable to put his name forward.”

Richard had no idea whether Keane would be suitable; the word would be passed through the whole battalion within hours and, hopefully, a number of men would apply. He would wait until they had been a month in the trenches and then start to select the best of them; there would vacancies by then.

He glanced at the rank of eight men, all new recruits by their uniforms, just three of them showing tanned and wind-browned by outdoor work as farmhands or builder’s labourers or the like. The office workers and factory hands would be less resilient in the trenches, as a rule. They presented arms, correctly.

“Smart turn-out, Sergeant Keane.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The Adjutant took over and walked Richard the fifty yards to the Mess, pointing out the little that was to be seen on the camp.

“Parade ground, sir, next to the drill square, which is not ideal – difficult to use both at once for orders on one being picked up on the other.”

“Is there any other space for a drill square?”

“No, sir. The sole other flat area is the cricket square, which obviously cannot be used for the purpose.”

“Why not?”

“Well…”

It was so obvious that Hawkeswill could not think of the words to reply. It was unheard of even to consider sacrificing the cricket ground.

“I will examine the site, Captain Hawkeswill.”

It was very wrong, started the new man off on a bad footing, the Adjutant feared.

“One hour to lunch time, sir. I have arranged for all officers to be present thirty minutes in advance of the hour so that you can greet them, sir.”

“Sensible. Where is Major Templeton? I had understood him to be my second in the battalion?”

“He will be waiting in the Mess, sir, to welcome you before you join the officers.”

It was unusual but not actually wrong of him.

“Are we up to strength in the Mess?”

“Almost fully, sir. Ten companies, each with a captain and a lieutenant and a second lieutenant. All as it should be, sir. There is a Quartermaster as well, sir.”

“A doctor?”

“To be appointed, sir. We have no Vet, sir.”

“Vet? Why should we have such an officer?”

“For the chargers, sir. The officer must have his pair of mounts, though we have allowed the second lieutenants to delay their purchases temporarily. I fear several of the young men will have to go, sir, if they continue to show unable to make furnish themselves correctly. A pity, they are mostly good officers in the making, but one must have standards, sir! Captain Burstall and Lieutenant Semple have strings of polo ponies as well, being rather keen on sport, which is very good for the battalion, sir. Are you having your horses walked across, sir?”

“There is no place for the horse in the trenches, Captain Hawkeswill! All horses will be gone within the week. Officers must be able to march alongside their men and will accompany them on their route marches with immediate effect. That to go up on the noticeboard today.”

“But, how are we to get on without them, sir? There are parades, you know…”

“All officers have feet – two of them, I trust! They will use them. As for polo – we have no time to play games!”

“I don’t think the Major will like that, sir.”

They entered the Mess, greeted by the Mess-Sergeant who was dressed as a maitre d’hotel, all black and white rather than in uniform.

“Are you a soldier?”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant…”

Richard interrupted him before he could finish introducing himself.

“Then get into uniform! Now! Never let me see you on duty dressed like a bloody waiter again!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Move then!”

The unfortunate sergeant ran.

He had undoubtedly been obeying orders, Richard thought. Tough luck! An old sergeant should have known better than to present himself to his new colonel looking like a greasy Italian pimp in fancy dress!

Major Templeton was waiting in the anteroom, glass in hand, his jovial greeting dying on his lips.

“Early in the day for the bar to be open, Major.”

“Normal practice, sir. After a hard morning we can all do with a drop of something to raise our spirits, sir!”

“I will not tell you how to run your Mess, Major. I will say that if I discover any officer to be worse for alcohol in the working day then I shall send him to court martial, without a second chance. Any officer, Major.”

Templeton was close to fifty, overweight and with the rosy nose and cheeks and bloodshot eyes of the hardened drinker. He scowled, tossed back his gin and put his glass down without calling for a refill.

“What is your opinion of the officers, Major? We go to France in a month or so, I much trust. Are there any who should not go with us?”

“In my opinion, sir, the bulk of these new wartime officers are not at all the thing and should be sent away to these strange new creations of Kitchener’s. ‘Chums’ and ‘Pals’ and all of that damned nonsense! I have had no fewer than four inform me that they cannot pay their Mess fees, let alone buy their horses! No income of their own and expecting to live on their pay, of all things. I have told them that I shall be recommending their dismissal from the battalion!”

“Not for that cause, Major. Reduce Mess fees to a reasonable wartime level. Not more than one half of any officer’s pay. With instant effect. We are not a bloody dining club, sir, nor are we a riding stables! We are to be a fighting battalion of foot! I have already instructed that all officers’ horses are to be sent away.”

“Do what?”

“Horses, Major Templeton, are valueless in the trenches. There is no place for them. None of our officers will take horses to France. All of our officers will march beside their men – that includes you and me, sir! There will be no horses here by the end of the week. That includes polo ponies. Any officer who cannot exist without access to a horse may inform me of the fact. He will then be sent to court martial for insubordination. As for Mess Fees – stuff and bloody nonsense, man! Inform me of any debts accruing to the younger men so far and I shall clear them myself. From today onwards it will be possible for every man to live on his pay, as it should be. You may not have noticed, Major, but we are fighting a war!”

Major Templeton was offended.

“I think, Colonel, that we might discuss that with our new brigadier.”

“I can assure you that Braithwaite will support me when he returns from his honeymoon. I attended his marriage last week, by the way, having become close to him when he commanded me in France. General Fotherby is also not unknown to me and Lieutenant General Atkinson is an acquaintance. I believe that I am instituting a policy they will thoroughly agree with.”

The Major considered his own influential contacts in the hierarchy and realised he was much outgunned; continued protest must result in his own downfall.

“I shall inform all officers of your orders tomorrow, sir.”

“Don’t bother, Major. I shall tell them myself in a few minutes. Now then, what is the state of preparedness in the battalion? Have we any of the new Lewis Guns? Is our Vickers party fully up to scratch? What of the Aid Post? I believe we have a Medical Officer due to join us – is all ready for him? How do we stand for warlike stores? What is our ammunition reserve?”

“The appropriate officers will inform you of all of these things, sir.”

“They will not! I expect my second in command to have all of this information at his fingertips. In my office for one o’clock tomorrow, Major – thirteen hundred hours, that is, we shall use the twenty-four hour clock exclusively from now on – and give me a full briefing then. Now, let us meet the Mess.”

The officers were waiting outside, had heard a raised voice and were now uneasy, shuffling from foot to foot in silence. Major Templeton called them in.

Richard stood silently, surveying them as they came in and stood formally to greet him.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Please be seated. Smoke if you wish.”

Templeton remained at his side, standing as the thirty-two officers sat, having first turned their chairs to face their seniors.

“A number of points, gentlemen, as is inevitable when a new man takes over. First of all, I will be taking you to France in four weeks from now. Thirty or so days from today will see us taking over a section of the trenches. There is some expectation of another push this autumn which we may be involved in. We must be on top line within one month. I do not know you yet, as goes without saying, and I do not know how many of you have experienced the trenches yet. Hands up if you have, please.”

Three captains and one lieutenant raised an arm.

“Just the five of us who have been there. That suggests that we all have much to do to make the men ready for all they – and we – will face. Four intense weeks, gentlemen.”

He watched to see who nodded, who scowled, picked out four of the older men, three captains and one lieutenant, sat together and looking unhappy. It was possible that they did not associate the Army with hard labour.

“First of all, we are infantry. Foot soldiers. We walk.”

He stopped and smiled at the hopeful few second lieutenants.

“We have no use for horses and will march everywhere. Using our own feet. Officers will remove their horses from the camp with immediate effect. That is to include polo ponies and such. The battalion will be indulging in route marches from the end of the week. Fifteen miles in five hours, the normal procedure, rifles and sixty pound packs. All officers, with the exception of the doctor and the quartermaster, will accompany their men. That, you will note, includes me.”

He kept a carefully straight face as the bulk of the men present registered horror. They could not protest or question him – that would have been insubordination – had to content themselves with severe frowns.

“Mess fees, you will be pleased to know, will be set at no more than one half of an officer’s pay in his rank. Many of the younger men joining us have no private income – nor need they have! They are answering their country’s call, not joining an expensive club! That will take immediate effect. I would point out that in the trenches there are no mess facilities. Officers generally eat the same food as the men, taken in their dugouts. I hope you like mutton stew and bully beef, gentlemen – you will eat a lot of it in the next months.”

There was open incredulity on the faces that had not been to war; the four who had seen the trenches grinned and nodded.

“Finally, gentlemen, training! There will be very little of the drill square – never more than an hour a day – and as much time on the range as possible. The ability to parade is unimportant. Shooting straight and fast is vital.”

The older men shook their heads – soldiering to them was the drill square and parades.

“I shall speak to you all individually over the coming week and will tell you more of all I expect. I will demand that you know your men, obviously, and will require you to make a list of all those fit for early promotion – we will need to replace sergeants and corporals frequently, I suspect. As well, I will need a list of all those who can be commissioned. There may be battlefield promotions to fill gaps in our own ranks; there will certainly be the opportunity for worthy men to return to depot for a brief period of training before coming back to us as officers.”

He nodded to Major Templeton and walked out, leaving a roar of variously outraged voices behind him.

“My office, please, Major.”

“It is close to luncheon, sir.”

“So it is. Have a snack sent across for me when you have shown me where I am.”

“It is not our habit to eat informally, sir.”

“Wrong tense, Major. It was not your habit to do so. Tea and sandwiches will do. The Mess Sergeant should have changed by now. He can bring the food to me, in person.”

“Yes, sir. Your office, sir.”

The room was bare, its cupboards and filing cabinet empty.

“I shall speak to the adjutant, of course, to arrange for the reports that must come to me. Go to your luncheon now, Major Templeton. Send the captains to me from thirteen hundred hours, at half-hourly intervals. I shall see the lieutenants individually tomorrow and the second lieutenants on Wednesday morning – they should require no more than ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir. What of me, sir? Am I to be interviewed?”

“No. I have discovered enough of you, Major. Will you be capable of a fifteen mile march on Thursday?”

“I have not marched so far in years, sir.”

“Then, Major, the answer lies in your hands. Brigade will look favourably on a request from you to be transferred to a sedentary post. I am sure that there will be a military prison, for example, that requires an assistant commandant.”

The offer was an insult, posts in military prisons being reserved for the least competent and most disliked of officers.

“Thank you, sir. I shall march!”

“Very good. Be sure not to fall off the pace. The officers must set the men an example.”

Templeton turned his back and stamped out, unable to trust himself to say more. Richard debated bringing him up for indiscipline, decided there was no need. With even a little luck, the old drunk would have a heart attack on his first march, bringing all of his troubles and problems to an end and much to the benefit of the battalion.

Paisley knocked and entered, having no need to wait for permission when he knew there was nobody else in the office.

“Your bags are in your quarters, sir. Got the windows open and airing the place out – been unused since it was built, there being no colonel here, sir. Two rooms and a bathroom, sir. Good enough for a single officer, sir. Place to sleep in and that’s all. Not like a proper camp, sir, just built rough and in a hurry. Spoke to the Adjutant’s sergeant, I did, sir. Looks like they been taking it easy, all the old, peacetime people, sir.”

“Then they will benefit from a shake up, Paisley. Pass the word around the officers’ servants to make ready for the trenches. Tell them what they need. Some of them will listen to you. Who is out in the offices?”

“Empty, sir. They shut up shop for two hours at lunchtime. No admin staff present at all.”

“My word! That will change, Paisley. Can you send word to ‘Major O’Grady to see me when he can?”

“Saw him just now, sir. He’ll be waiting for you outside. They’ll keep his meal hot waiting for him.”

“Good. Ask him to come in.”

O’Grady appeared, formal and precise as always on duty.

“Empty offices, sir?”

“Have a quiet word with them, ‘Major. Not what we expect in a battalion in its last stages of training.”

“Nor it is, sir. I shall bring everything onto top line, sir. I started on Friday and Major Templeton told me not to be a nuisance in the offices.”

“His mistake, I believe, ‘Major.”

“So it is, sir.”

“What are the men like?”

“Drill is good enough, sir. Too little time on the range, though that may be for lack of rounds to fire. Marches have been made without packs but with rifles.”

“That’s in hand. What of your NCOs?”

“The sergeants are mostly older men with time served, sir. No problems there. The couple of youngsters were made up in France and know what they’re doing. The corporals are about half and half and there are a few of them will not be keeping their stripes and some who will be rising quickly. As for the lances, all of them are new men in and rewarded for showing well in their training; most will make full corporal and quickly. All in all, sir, I am satisfied with them.”

“Good. If the NCOs are good, then the battalion will be too. Any Wincantons among the little boys in the Mess?”

O’Grady laughed and shook his head.

“I have seen nothing of them over the weekend, sir, the officers not expecting to be in camp on Saturday and Sunday. I do not know, sir. One or two seem a little awkward in their ways from what I have seen. Might be willing but no experience of any sort, none of these Cadets for them. Could be a problem in the Mess, them as have been to the right schools and them as attended the wrong.”

Richard knew better than to ask what O’Grady had heard – if he was saying no more, he had his reasons.

“With a different major, I might not be too worried about that. Major Templeton will be joining us on the route march on Thursday. Full packs and rifles, ‘Major. Have a word with your sergeants and make sure every man knows how to settle his pack on his shoulders and can carry his rifle as he should.”

“Stockings and boots too, sir. Sick parade first, sir?”

“Provided too many do not take the opportunity to avoid marching, ‘Major.”

“There might be one or two who will need to be brought slowly to a full march, sir. A special squad to do five miles morning and afternoon for a few days and then slowly increasing. Some of the youngsters are awful skinny still.”

“I shall leave that to you, ‘Major.”

There was a clattering of chairs in the offices, two or three men making a point of being present.

“That’s better! The word must have reached them that I expect the telephone manned at all times of the day.”

They opened the door and saw a sergeant at the outer desk and occupants in the Major’s and Adjutant’s offices.

The sergeant jumped to attention, bare-headed and unable to salute.

“Sergeant Cooper, sir.”

Cooper was at least forty, settled into the offices away from the hustle and bustle of active training. Provided he was still willing to work, it was the best place for a man with more than twenty years knowledge of the Army and its ways.

“Make sure the office has a man present from seven hundred to nineteen hundred hours, Cooper. Arrange meals with the kitchens. That is to include weekends, of course. We shall be working straight through most weeks.”

Cooper noted the order, giving it a date and time in the official log he kept.

“Do you record all telephone calls, Cooper?”

“Yes, sir. Time and duration and number called, sir. We have our own sort of switchboard, you might say, sir.”

“As it should be. Inform Brigade that I am present in the camp and have assumed command.”

“Sir.”

The Mess Sergeant arrived, carrying a covered plate, a waiter behind him with a tea tray.

“Into my office, if you please, Sergeant. You look better in a uniform!”

“At your orders, sir.”

Richard laughed, accepting the rebuke that said the sergeant had previously been obeying other commands.

“New face, new orders, Sergeant. Will you accompany the battalion to France or are you posted to the Mess and our replacements here?”

“Battalion, sir.”

“You will join the HQ Company when it is formed. No messes in the trenches.”

“Yes, sir. I was BEF in August, sir, and marched to Ypres, was sent back wounded from the Salient.”

“Good. Your experience will be welcome, Sergeant. Sergeant Major O’Grady will discuss your future with you.”

O’Grady relaxed a fraction.

“Might be a better place than the Headquarters Company for an experienced man, Sergeant Atkins, provided you are fit for the front line.”

“I was shot in the leg, ‘Major. I was not up to marching when I was sent here. I am now.”

“Sure, then, Atkins, I can use you better than in the Mess. We can replace you with one of the creaky old men.”

Richard stepped back into the office, accepting he had been wrong in his first assessment of the sergeant. He wondered whether he had done an injustice to Hawkeswill and Templeton as well, overhasty in his meeting with them. He doubted it but decided he must give them the opportunity to show better. He picked up his sandwich – ham and pickle, not the bully beef he had expected – and poured his tea wondering if he had been nervous and short-tempered on entering into his new responsibilities.

Chapter Eleven

“So tell me Quiller, what’s wrong with Lancelot?”

Quiller had seen Lancelot over several months.

“She’s the Jonah – go out on patrol in company with Lancelot and you’ll see nothing and be hit by an unexpected storm. Add to that, if she’s out on her own then she’ll lose crew members over the side or have men fall into open hatches overnight or simply trip and break a leg to a rogue wave. On the rare occasions she has been in action, she has hit nothing and been caught by random fire and lost men. Walk along the dock and pass her mooring and a seagull will crap on you – honestly!”

Simon shrugged – bad luck happened but there sounded as well to be a little of slackness. Perhaps that was why she was getting a new captain. Pity the First remained; he would make his mind up about him, dump him if necessary.

“What’s her coxswain like?”

“Old for the boats. Best of seamen, started under sail, of course, been everywhere, done everything. By way of being an intimidating sort of fellow, so they say.”

Nothing to say there, until he had met the man. If the captain had been even a fraction on the weak side then the coxswain might have been allowed too much power, might have changed from a figure of authority to being an overbearing bully.

He could not ask about the first lieutenant, not in the mess on the depot ship that they all shared.

“Taking some of your own men across, they tell me, Sturton.”

“Gunner, sub and my new mid. Mr Rees is one of the best and the youngster, Waller, comes from a yachting family in Hamble.”

He said nothing of Higgins, the absence of comment noted by his dinner companion, another half-striper from a flotilla of the new M Class boats, larger and immeasurably superior for having a closed-in bridge with glass to protect the officers from cold and sea.

“You’ll see her in the morning. The half-section has been on the coastal shipping run, north as far as Boston. We get sent out on that infrequently, showing our noses to the Merchant Navy, letting them know we exist and care about them! Always the chance of a cruiser raid along the East Anglian coast, so the Admiralty says. Don’t make sense to me – most of the coasters running down to London are tiny – sailing craft of forty or fifty tons, steamers not a great deal bigger. A lot of them, I will accept, but sending a cruiser out after them risks a major ship for little enough gain. However, ours is not to reason why…”

Difficult sailing along a shallow coast with all of the navigation and hazard buoys taken up. Necessarily inshore because that was where the small ships were. A night passage along that coastline would be fraught. It would be interesting in the morning to see how Lancelot had fared.

“Do you know what you will be doing, Sturton?”

“Working up the half-section for a few days then patrolling in the North Sea – nothing out of the ordinary.”

There was no need to mention the possible bombardment – that might smack of favouritism, even the faintest implication to be avoided.

Simon took an early breakfast, glancing out of the wardroom and across the harbour, watching for Lancelot to come in out of the morning mists.

Four L Class entered, neatly in line astern, took up their moorings. There was a working party on one, tidying up ropes in the bows, as if she had been towed. More men dropped a boat and then took a hose aboard and paddled to the stern, started a hasty clean-up. The captain was coming ashore in the other boat.

“’Morning, Sturton. Washing down the mud thrown up by the screws at the stern and clearing up after a tow. Found a mudbank by the looks of it. Lancelot, of course.”

“Let us hope the screws and rudder are still good, Quiller. Soft mud, from the way it’s washing off. Should be good.”

“Hopefully. Eat up, Sturton, you might well be taking over earlier than you thought for. Tyrwhitt might not be in a good mood at this time of day.”

Simon was on his second cup of coffee when a messenger came to his table, asked him to attend the Commodore in his cabin.

“Good morning, Sturton. Get your bags together, man! Take over Lancelot with immediate effect. Just been on the telephone to the Admiralty. I sacked Captain Hayes five minutes ago. Grounded in the Wash overnight, came off with a rope and this morning’s tide. Captain blamed the First and the Coxswain equally, not his fault at all! I am dumping all three. Waiting for their postings now. I will have new men aboard within the day. The Coxswain will be a new man in the job. Chief Petty Officer out of one of the old King Edwards at Chatham, knew him years back. Good man and he will be delighted to get back to the boats. Small ships all of his life! Your new First has a good record on paper up to his last ship. I don’t know him. No reason to suppose he is other than a good officer – but!”

Simon took his cue.

“But what, sir?”

“His previous captain – Dover Patrol, one of the light cruisers, Birmingham – got rid of him, claimed he was insubordinate. Court found for him and he has been sent to me for employment, no stain on his character. All yours, Sturton.”

“Thank you, sir. I trust he will not be another Gibson.”

“So do I, man! We put up a black there. Damned good thing you got us out from underneath! He has been shifted out of Dartmoor, by the way – don’t look so surprised, not released. Sent to Broadmoor, to the criminal lunatic asylum. They say he’s gone right round the bend, raving mad! From all I hear, you have to be crazy as a loon for the screws at Dartmoor to notice anything out of the ordinary.”

“Good thing he was gone from Sheldrake before he went mad, sir.”

“Very.” Tyrwhitt was not prepared to examine that set of possibilities. “Off you go. Get aboard Lancelot and do something with her. A week in Harwich and then I’ll send the four of you out on shake down and then it’s to business.”

Simon ran to his cabin on the depot ship, mind racing. All new officers, apart from the sub, and a week to take the ship in hand.

‘Could be busy.’

“Packer, we are to board Lancelot at soonest. Pass the word to Mr Rees and the other two that they are to get across before me. Mr Rees acting as senior. Coxswain is coming up on the train from Chatham and the First from Dover, both due here today.”

Packer could pass the word unofficially; much more convenient than Simon making a formal announcement. The three would speak to the officers they knew on the depot ship and pick up the buzz, the latest rumours.

Simon waited an hour, out of courtesy, to give the previous captain’s steward time to clear his cabin, then took a boat out from the depot ship. He sat in the stern sheets, an arm resting on the gunwale to display the two and a half stripes, warning the sentry of a senior officer, likely to be the new captain, if he was awake.

Two cables distant and he saw men scurrying, a side party forming. He had not caught them unawares, which made for a better start.

Rees welcomed him formally, the pipes squealing in the background. Higgins, Waller and an unknown sub were stood properly behind him, a rank of ratings to the other side. They had done well in the absence of Coxswain and First, the pair who would normally arrange such things.

“Thank you, Mr Rees. I know the officers, of course, with just the single exception.”

“Sublieutenant McCracken, sir.”

The accents of Ulster were harsh in the young man’s voice.

Very young, made his commission well before he was twenty, suggesting an efficient man – or another Higgins.

“You have your watchkeeping certificate, Mr McCracken?”

“I have, sir.”

“Good. You will be a useful member of the wardroom. What is your seniority?”

“Three months, sir.”

“That places you senior to Mr Higgins. I will expect you both to assist Mr Waller who is new to the Navy but has considerable yachting experience.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“First Lieutenant and Coxswain are on trains at the moment, should be here today. We can delay setting a watch-keeping roster until the First arrives. Mr Rees will be busy with the guns and tubes so Mr Higgins will be Officer of the Day. Mr McCracken, take Waller on a tour of the ship, if you please. No engineroom personnel present, Mr Rees?”

“Chief ERA has gone across to the yard, sir, to pick up some spares. His senior is working on the steering motor, which took some strain last night – details I do not know, sir. Hands are to Make and Mend after cleaning ship, sir. The grounding upset everything in the mess decks and there is an amount to do to make themselves comfortable again.”

“They took the mud at speed, I presume?”

“I believe so, sir. I have not had the opportunity to discuss the details yet.”

Simon shook his head; the lookouts should have seen something, have been able to give a last-minute warning.

“I shall be in my cabin for a while, reading the log and getting a feel for the ship. Pass the word that there will be no inspections today. I shall go over the whole ship tomorrow, with the new First.”

A new captain’s inspection was normally of a gleaming bright ship, polished and ready for him; he did not want to start his tenure by discovering the mess left behind by the night’s misfortunes.

The Log revealed almost nothing. The previous captain had been cautious in all of his entries. His record of the grounding recorded latitude and longitude of the mud bank and the fact that the First Lieutenant had the watch and the Coxswain was at the wheel; it said nothing else. Glancing back, the ship had not gone to action stations, was cruising through the night with half of her men asleep.

‘Bloody slack!’

Packer poked his head in the door from his little pantry.

“Did you call, sir?”

“No, I didn’t, but I’ll take a mug of tea, please. What’s the buzz?”

“Haven’t heard it all yet, sir. Captain’s steward was filling a trunk with a load of bottles when I got here, sir. Cheap whisky, not a good single malt for entertaining. From what he said, the captain slept heavy most nights.”

“Drunken bastard!”

“It happens, sir. Not often.”

“Fortunately, Packer. I’m going up to the bridge – bring my tea up there, please.”

The bridge was as it should be – open, a fraction greater than Sheldrake’s and higher, due to the raised forecastle. She looked a more modern ship, faster and tidier, an obvious development on the older destroyer.

Three funnels lower and broader, that difference very clear to the eye. Three guns, all four inch on the centreline, fore, midships and aft. The Maxim up on a little bandstand, two twin torpedo tubes, well aft. Mountings on the bridge wings which suggested single Lewises, stored below decks for some reason. There was a rack with six cutlasses on display, bright and shiny with elaborate plaited cords to the hilts, presumably for the bridge party in case of need; they would go!

The Yeoman of the Signals was quietly working over his locker, scrubbing and folding his flags, a single rating at his side.

“Yeoman!”

“Hardy, sir.”

“Have we a wireless installation?”

“In its own little cabin below the bridge, sir. Captain wouldn’t use it and set the operator to work with me, sir. Pascoe, sir.”

The rating stiffened to attention.

“Keep watch in the wireless cabin, Pascoe. Have you a relief?”

“No, sir. Expected to train up a bright young bloke meself, sir. He won’t need to do repairs, just to man the key and shout for me if anything comes through. Haven’t had much chance to work on the set, sir.”

“Do so with immediate effect, Pascoe. Condition report for the First Lieutenant. Indent for any spares needed. Get the set in top order within the week.”

“Aye aye, sir. I shall have to replace the aerial, sir. Captain said it disfigured the mast and had it taken down, sir.”

“Can you do it or is it a yard job?”

“Do it meself, sir.”

“Well done! Carry on. Yeoman, do you need another hand now?”

“Could use one, sir. I’ll speak to the Coxswain and the First, sir.”

“Good. Arrange it as you wish.”

The paintwork was fresh, well maintained to peacetime standards. Simon had a suspicion that the previous owner had been a peacetime sailor, had not been at home sailing out to war.

His tea arrived, belatedly.

“No kettle in the pantry, sir. Had to borrow from the wardroom.”

“Go ashore and pick up all you need, Packer. Take money from my desk. We have the half-section so there must be mugs for three other captains as well.”

Mid afternoon brought the Coxswain, travelling light with a large duffle bag and small suitcase, used to destroyers.

“Westerman, sir, reporting.”

A South Country accent, Portsmouth probably, from a short, busy little man, dark and muscular and never still.

“Good to see you, Coxswain. One or two little problems aboard, or so I suspect. Keep an eye out for what’s going on. We will be a week or so in Harwich before a first patrol out to the Broad Fourteens for a couple of days. Expect to be in business off the Belgian coast after the fortnight. When the First arrives, you will go over the watch lists together, tidy everything up. Taut but not harsh, if you please.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The Coxswain trotted below, reappeared ten minutes later at the side of a petty officer who was showing him something at the stern.

“No problems there, Mr Higgins.”

“No, sir. Looks like another boat for us, sir.”

“Officer?”

“No, sir. Chief ERA by the looks of it, sir. Some wooden boxes in the bottom of the boat.”

“Don’t see those, Mr Higgins. All unofficial!”

“How do I not see something, sir?”

“You see those seagulls following the fishing boats over there, Mr Higgins?”

A deeply suspicious voice agreed that he did.

“Well, watch the bloody shitehawks and you won’t see the Chief ERA, Mr Higgins!”

Higgins thought the captain was possibly being unkind to him. He obeyed orders, knowing that was always a safe thing to do.

Mr Rees came up to the bridge, a list in hand.

“Beg pardon, sir, but there is a need to indent for four inch shell and three-o-three rounds, in some quantity, sir. The leading hand and gun captain to the stern four inch is the senior gunnery hand aboard and tells me the Gunner made his indent two weeks back…”

“And nothing happened – talking of which, Mr Rees, have you heard of brain cells?”

Mystified, Rees agreed he had – there were millions of them, apparently, in some way working together to produce human intelligence.

“Or not working, as the case may be, Mr Rees.”

Simon glanced across at Higgins, still busily watching the birds.

They shook their heads in unison and turned to watch the Chief ERA come aboard and trot up to the bridge, all in a hurry, calling instructions over his shoulder to the boat’s crew who were bringing the boxes aboard.

“Beg pardon, sir, I had to go across to the yard early, assumed your permission… Sorry, sir, you are not Captain Hayes.”

“I certainly was not last time I looked in a mirror, Chief. I am Captain Sturton, leader of the half-section.”

“Ah, I see, sir. Captain Hayes hit one mudbank too many, sir?”

“He did indeed, Chief.”

“Right, sir. Beg pardon, sir, Chief ERA Malcolm reporting, sir. Delayed by the need to beg spares from the yard, sir, the steering engine having taken slight damage last night and preferring to replace rather than repair, sir.”

“Very good, Mr Malcolm. The First Lieutenant and Coxswain have gone as well, the new premier to arrive later today. For the immediate term, do you need anything in the engineroom?”

“No, sir, not immediately. Boiler clean next month, or the one after. Condensers later in the year, no doubt, but nothing for the while, sir, due to the yard foreman having married my sister last year, she being a widow, which did us no end of good, you might say.”

“Nothing like keeping it in the family, Chief. Have you taken all of your courses?”

“Every last one, sir. Up to date as of July ’14. Passed them all, sir.”

“Very good! We might wish to discuss that, Chief.”

“I put in my application to be considered for commissioned status when I passed my last course, sir. Heard nothing.”

“No promises – I am too junior to be able to make them.”

“Thank you, sir. Have you spoken to the new Coxswain about the accidents over the last few months, sir? Might be he could do a bit of digging. Unusual for destroyer hands to fall over the railings, even in the blackest nights, sir.”

The Chief saluted and left the bridge.

“What does that sound like to you, Mr Rees?”

“The same as it sounded to you, sir. Do we speak to Westerman now or wait until the First arrives?”

Simon thought a few seconds.

“Pull them both, and you, into my cabin as soon as the new man gets here.”

“There were some who fell down open hatches, as well, sir. All hatches should always be battened down.”

“Ears open and mouth shut for the while, Mr Rees.”

“Nothing to the subs or young Waller, sir?”

“Not yet. Wait a moment.” Simon turned to Higgins, still considering the seagulls. “Enough now, Sub! He’s gone. Did you hear anything these last few minutes?”

Higgins pondered for a few seconds and then smiled.

“Not a thing, sir!”

“Well done! There may be hope for you yet. Get below and see to your cabin space. I shall hold the bridge for the while.”

“Aye aye, Horatius!”

With that daring sally, Higgins disappeared below.

“Horatius?”

“He held the bridge, sir. Some sort of Classical thing.”

“Witty! Speak to him quietly and tell him it was funny but not to be repeated – captains are allowed to be humourists, subs ain’t.”

Lieutenant Canning arrived in mid-afternoon, irritated by a tedious journey.

“Dover to London to Harwich, sir – hardly a circumnavigation! Seven hours!”

Simon winced in sympathy.

“Excessive! I presume you are the new First.”

“Sorry, sir. Canning, sir, reporting to join, hours later than I should have been!”

“Welcome aboard, Mr Canning. What do you know about this posting?”

“Nothing, sir. I was woken at seven o’clock in the depot ship and given a travel warrant and told to be on my way. I did not even know I was to be First until you said so.”

“Well, you are, and you have a job on your plate! Sublieutenant McCracken is the sole officer remaining from last night. The coxswain has been replaced as well. Lancelot is in a mess and we have a very few days to fix her. We have the half-section, so a band painted on the forrard funnel as soon as possible. After that, a watch rota. First, a meeting in my cabin with the Coxswain and the Commissioned Gunner. I shall explain all out of sight and hearing. Do you have destroyer experience, by the way?”

“No, sir. First time I have ever stepped aboard one of the breed. Light cruiser last, and armoured cruisers before that. Left Birmingham under a cloud, sir, as no doubt you know.”

“Vaguely. The court found for you and that is all I wish to know – unless you show useless and then I shall ask when I have you dismissed.”

Canning laughed.

“Short and sweet, sir. I shall work my hardest, sir – I need to expunge the stain on my record.”

“Difficult in this Navy, Canning. Worth trying. Things are a bit different in destroyers. My last premier was given Sheldrake when I left her yesterday – barely six months in as a sub, let alone a full lieutenant! He is to take her to the Med, if he can find his way.”

“Sheldrake… Have you seen the newspapers, sir?”

“Full of it, are they?”

“I gather you single-handedly sank a destroyer and two minelayers, sir. A good trick, that!”

“Hooray for the jolly jack tar!”

“Just that, sir.”

The four sat in the working cabin, barely big enough to hold them. Packer provided tea and shut the door firmly behind him.

“Welcome to Lancelot, gentlemen. She is the Jonah of Harwich, I am told. Men lost overboard and others with their legs or necks broken falling down hatches. Inefficient and her last captain a drunk. It stinks!”

“Beg pardon, sir, but that ain’t the sort of thing destroyer men do, not unless they are green hands who did not ought to be let out on their own at night.”

“I agree, wholly, Mr Westerman. Who and why? Have we a random murderer amusing himself? Or is there some sort of other criminality? I think we can discount spies and saboteurs – they would have better things to do than target a single destroyer.”

Canning and Rees agreed.

“Tobacco, most likely, sir,” Westerman suggested. “Running across to Belgium and picking up cheap shag there and bringing it back by the ton. Needs cooperation to store it aboard – destroyers being small, everybody will see it.”

“A good possibility, Coxswain. If not tobacco, what?”

“Opium, sir? Cocaine is used much in Mayfair as well. Good money there and easier to pick up in France, I am told. I believe all supplies in England are going for medical usage these days, can’t be much diverted onto the civilian market.”

“Didn’t know that, Mr Canning. Less bulky than tobacco, is it not?”

“Far less, sir. Worth more for the ounce when it is made up into morphine or heroin or the powder form for cocaine, which don’t come from opium, I think.”

“It’s not actually illegal, is it, sir?”

“Not to my knowledge, Mr Canning. Can’t be too happy about Lancelot setting up shop selling the stuff, however. Still, drop heroin and cocaine from the possibilities – must be ten thousand use tobacco for every man who would buy the drugs. Any other reason for criminal behaviour?”

“Buggery can be a problem, but not normally on a destroyer – no privacy at all on a boat.”

Westerman agreed.

“Only out for a few days at a time as well. Not like a battleship. Rule that out, sir, generally speaking.”

It was all speculation, they agreed. They would keep their eyes open and talk with the petty officers as they grew to know them. It might take some weeks but in the end an investigation must be successful on a ship with only seventy-three in the crew. They turned to the watches and consideration of training.

“Lewis Guns, Mr Rees. Mounts on the bridge but no guns to be discovered.”

“Packed away in the stores, sir. Nicely greased up and boxed. Previous gunner didn’t like them; new and they looked untidy. I hope to replace them with twins, sir, so I shall leave them in their cases for now. There will be something fitted up by the time we sail, sir. Might be possible to pick up something a little heavier, sir. Never know what may be possible.”

“Such as what, Mr Rees?”

“American, mostly, sir. The Browning company makes automatic weapons in forty-five and fifty calibre, sir and the Navy bought some for evaluation. Might be hanging about in odd places, sir, and I know one or two people…”

Destroyers were to a great extent a law to themselves. Senior authority would normally not intervene while they were successful. Failure of any of their unorthodox equipment resulted in court martial.

“Do what you can, Mr Rees. Have you heard word of aeroplane guns? We have seen the damned things flying near us. Ought to be able to shoot at them on general principles.”

“So we should, sir. I will ask about. Might be able to replace the Maxim with a high-angle gun of some sort.”

“Good. Mr Canning, it’s too soon for you to know what is needed on Lancelot. Do not hesitate to tell me of any changes that you wish to make. Same applies to you, Coxswain.”

Westerman suggested that there were too many green hands aboard.

“Could do with a leading hand seaman, sir, or an older AB. Short of knowhow on deck, sir.”

“How does that come about, do you know?”

“Three good hands worked their passage, sir, over the last two months. Managed to get postings or go off on courses, out of Lancelot. Didn’t like the way the ship was going.”

“Sensible men – we must prove them wrong. I shall speak to the Commodore as soon as I know what’s going on.”

The three left and Simon settled down to paperwork, finding the in-tray almost empty. Inspection of the files and folders showed a rigorous attention to detail – on paper. The previous captain had been meticulous in his routines, possibly preferring the desk to the bridge. The indents for stores and ammunition were all carefully made out – and had been filed away rather than sent. Going back through the records, it seemed that all such requests were always sent out on the last Friday of the month, routine winning out over operational needs. Out of interest, he glanced at the oiling records and found that Lancelot had very frequently taken fuel on a Wednesday, presumably the day appointed by the captain as best.

The man had retreated into a world of rigorous repetition; perhaps it had protected him in some way, saved him from the need to make decisions day-to-day.

He rewrote the paperwork and called for a boat to send the forms in immediately.

“Packer, ask Mr Malcolm to see me.”

The chief ERA appeared within minutes.

“Oiling, Chief. Puzzles me a fraction…”

“And me, sir. Captain Hayes wanted to oil on the same day, every time. Mid-week, sir, at four bells in the Forenoon. He said that was best. Got upset when I wanted to go to the oiling berth out of turn, sir. I know he didn’t like calling for full speed because it might use up too much fuel and force him to go in on a Tuesday perhaps.”

“Why? Did he ever say?”

“No, sir. Never explained. He wanted everything neat and tidy, sir, nothing out of place. I saw it in the engineroom once, years back. The Engineer Lieutenant there was a bottle hound, sir, always smelling of gin. Might be something that goes with the booze, sir, an obsession, so they call it in the books, sir. Interesting, the way people behave.”

“So it is. Hobby of yours, Chief?”

“I like to read about the way people go on, sir. These alienists are fascinating people, sir – Germans, though. Strange, the way they can explain why people behave the way they do.”

Simon nodded cautiously. Engineer officers were renowned in the Navy for being over-educated and reading far too much; it often turned them into cranks, tucked away in their little cabins and filling their brains with weird information. Still, Hayes had undoubtedly been a drunk…

“It might explain much, Chief. I have sent your papers in, by the way, and will mention them to the Commodore. Makes sense for the half-section leader to have a senior man in the engineroom, available to the other ships if needed.”

Commodore Tyrwhitt arrived on inspection at the end of the first week. It was normal for the Commodore to visit any ship with a new captain and they had brought Lancelot up to her shining best in anticipation of the descent from on high.

An hour and he had walked through every compartment and spoken to many of the hands and been satisfied with all he saw. He sat in the cabin and talked with Simon, congratulating him on his initial endeavours.

“No Lewises mounted on the bridge, Sturton?”

“Previous captain did not like them, sir. Untidy. Mr Rees is trying to lay his hands on twins to replace them.”

The Commodore knew that he should ask no more on that topic – none of his business what minor fiddles went on to improve the ship’s efficiency.

“Satisfied with your officers?”

“They seem good, sir. Canning is settling in well as First. The Chief ERA is qualified to be commissioned, sir.”

“I saw that and have recommended him. Ought to be accepted by the Admiralty.”

“Three senior hands managed to wangle postings out over the last couple of months, sir. I could use a leading hand seaman. Short on experience on the deck.”

Tyrwhitt wondered why that had not been brought to his attention by his own staff – it was the sort of indicator that suggested a ship was in bad order.

“That can be dealt with, Sturton.”

One or two hands would be transferred in and out every month in the normal way of things, no ship’s company remained unchanged. Men returned from sickness or wounds or were sent to and from training in a steady trickle – it would be simple enough to ensure that one or two experienced hands were posted to Lancelot.

A brief discussion of the progress of the war – nothing in particular was happening – and Tyrwhitt readied himself to leave.

“All well on the domestic front, Sturton?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. My new family are still happy to see me. I am definitely considering an engagement, sir – not necessarily this year. Parrett’s sister, as I mentioned.”

“Congratulations. Delay marriage till after the war, perhaps?”

“I would expect so, sir. I don’t think a destroyer captain should have a wife at home, not in wartime.”

“Agreed. Nothing to distract you from business! Sheldrake is off to the Med in two days. I presume there is a farewell organised?”

The eight of the flotilla were to go out together. They had made the arrangements for a massive binge to see them off separately from the formal farewell.

“Yes, sir. The Royal Hotel has been booked for a meal and a drink or two tonight. I expect to have a headache tomorrow, sir!”

Tyrwhitt laughed, looked regretful that he was too senior for such affairs, had to be respectable.

“No insubordination from your First, I presume?”

“I don’t know what that was all about, sir. Hard working and willing to learn. No experience of destroyers, but one would not know that. Must have been one of these personal dislikes that you see occasionally, sir. A few months and I must lose him to command of his own boat, sir. He is good!”

“My people have not heard the background to the business, Sturton. Must have been something to cause his captain to take such a down on him. As you say, could have been something like whistling first thing in the morning when the captain preferred silence. Met up with that myself, not so many years ago.”

Simon stood on the bridge, watching the hands dealing with a simulated fire on the after deck, shell damage that was threatening to reach the ready-use storage for the four inchers. Canning was at the site of the fire, in charge of the hose parties, brought the exercise to an end and returned to the bridge satisfied.

“Hoses brought into play inside less than a minute, sir. All done calmly, no great screaming and shouting of orders.”

“I saw two men fall over. One of them was tripped, I am sure, Number One. Youngster by the name of Head, I think. I still don’t know all of the men.”

Canning spoke to the Coxswain and he in turn made his investigations, quietly, came back later in the day.

“Head, sir, is Irish. Mouths off about the Irish problem and how the British are oppressors. There are others from Ireland who don’t like that.”

“Protestants, would that be?”

“Not all. There’s a lot of Irish in the Navy. More in the Army, as has always been the case. As far as can be told, most of them don’t care one way or the other. They have left Ireland behind them for the duration, are too busy fighting the war against Germany. Most of them don’t want a big mouth stirring up bad feeling aboard ship. It might be a different matter when the war is over – that I don’t know. For the moment, they are loyal to the Navy and to hell with all politics.”

“Are there others like Head?”

“Not that I know of, sir. It’s possible they fell over the side or down a hatch, of course. I won’t be asking directly, sir, but might pick up on the odd conversation over time. There is something going on, sir. I can feel the hands are keeping something back, and I don’t know what, no idea. It might be lower deck justice, sir.”

Canning hoped not but passed the word to Simon.

“A lynching, in other words, Number One.”

“Westerman has that feeling, sir. I have heard of it, never been in a ship that experienced it in extreme form. I know that one occasionally sees a hand wearing bruises with no explanation for them, and I know not to ask how or why.”

“There was one on St Vincent when I was a mid, Number One. Not so many years back, in fact! One of the older hands who molested a boy seaman. He was given a kicking that broke him. Left him bruised and battered and with his face cut about and teeth lost – they tell me that Marines’ boots when they are new have almost a razor edge to their leather soles. Whatever, he was a handsome, strutting sort of fellow and recovered from his beating ugly and with his mouth fallen in where so many teeth had gone. He went absent in Cape Town – never heard what happened to him.”

“Might be how a man was lost over the rail, sir…”

“Possible. We shall never be told if that was so.”

“Bad for discipline. Even worse if the officers heard nothing in a small ship.”

“Damned right! Has McCracken said anything at all?”

“Nothing, sir. Mind you, I have hardly had time to talk to him, despite him being next senior to me. I shall make the effort, possibly in the depot ship of an evening, have a drink together, that sort of thing, breaking the ice, you know.”

“Do that, Mr Canning. Sooner rather than later, if you would. I am not happy about the atmosphere in the ship. Take that mudbank Lancelot grounded on – yes, it was in the night, but what’s the odds that none of lookouts spotted a flash of white seas breaking on it or picked up on a change in the feel of the waves? None of them made a report. Either they didn’t care or they wanted to drop the captain into trouble. Whatever, it’s no attitude for a ship at war.”

Canning frowned, inclined to agree with his captain in the nature of things, also feeling that he did not like lookouts who turned a blind eye.

“I’ll have a drink with McCracken tonight, sir.”

Sublieutenant McCracken was still young and had yet to develop a head for alcohol. Being within reason sensible for his age, he normally drank little and cautiously; as well, he had seen Captain Hayes and come to his own conclusions there. Canning was better able to handle his gins, encouraged the boy to two too many and remained sober when McCracken showed tipsy; he found it easy to get the boy talking.

“Captain Hayes, he would do nothing out of routine, sir. He was told that Robbins and Jenkin and Birtles were a little gang and preying on the younger seamen and refused to take action. He shouted at the First when he tried to press him to bring them to court. I told him of what I had heard and he threatened to have me put ashore and broken as no use on destroyers. Then he drank some more, sir. He would do nothing! You know what it’s like on a destroyer, sir – nothing is a secret. The men knew the captain would do nothing, so I am sure they dealt with the problem themselves, sir. Robbins disappeared in the night and Jenkin was found with his neck broken under the forward ammunition supply hatch two days afterwards. A week later and Birtles was carried ashore for ‘falling down’ in the night – both arms broken and his face unrecognisable. Captain Hayes said it was accidents. The old coxswain said he knew nothing and turned his back on the Captain in front of the men.”

Canning bought another gin.

“I asked the First what to do and he told me to keep my mouth shut. It was over and would not happen again. It was wrong, though, sir.”

“So it was, youngster! Forget about it. We have a new captain and will be seeing action soon enough. That should pull the men together. I’ll pass the word to Mr Westerman.”

The new coxswain shook his head when he was told the tale.

“Bad one, sir. Better we do not investigate. If we passed it across to the Provost Department they would go through the men and in the end one of them would talk under the pressure. Then it would be murder charges for I don’t know how many hands and the ship finished for morale. Wisest course is for me to quietly let it be known that I know what happened and I will raise Heaven and Earth if it happens again. New officers, new ways of doing things. The past is gone, finished, almost forgotten and will remain that way, while it can be. For now it’s all pull together and there’s a war to fight and us to the front of it. Be an idea to have a word with the captain, sir. The sooner we see some action to pull the hands together, the better.”

Chapter Twelve

Christopher stirred in bed in the hotel room in Alexandria. He stretched and yawned, right arm touching obviously female flesh, left leg nudging another young lady as he rolled towards the first to greet the morning.

He did not remember bringing two girls back to the hotel; there was no particular reason he should not have, however. Alexandria was an easy-going, high-living town for the Navy, especially when one was not concerned about reputation or promotion. He wondered what the date was.

Later, getting his breath back, he enquired of the nearer girl if she knew what day of the week it might be.

She grinned and shook her head, speaking no English. The second sat up and announced it was Tuesday.

“Bugger! The trawlers come out of the yard today. Duty calls!”

He stood and sniffed an armpit and chose to run a bath before putting on his uniform and pulling out his wallet. Rather to his surprise, his note case was still full of Egyptian pounds with a pair of English fivers in the back. He pulled out half of its contents and split the banknotes into two piles, put them on the sideboard while he stuffed his shore-going clothes into his suitcase.

“Ladies! My thanks! I must go back to sea. Farewell!”

They laughed and waved and dived for the money, quickly counting and thanking his generosity.

He left without a backward glance.

The hotel found him a carriage to the dockyard and he arrived with five minutes to spare before the set time.

The five trawlers all had steam up and he ran aboard Hans Heine and down to his cabin, changed quickly into sea-going uniform and trotted up to the little bridge space.

“Where next, sir?”

Skipper Murchison, senior of the flotilla, shook his head in mock despair at his subordinate’s debauchery; he was more than a little envious.

“Red Sea, Adams. There is a possibility of small craft – dhows and such – carrying Turkish troops with the intention of making landings along the Arabian coast north of Jeddah and possibly advancing towards Suez. We are to patrol south, stopping and searching as we go. An eye out for slaves, as always. Check for gold bullion as well – apparently the price of gold is higher in India than in Egypt and there may be an outflow of bullion, which is undesirable, or so it seems. Damned if I know what or why, but that’s what the orders say.”

It all seemed fairly pointless to Christopher. Most things did.

“Powder hulk and then coaling, sir?”

“Yes, both today. Sail at first light for the Canal. Our armament has been changed again, by the way. We retain the four inch QF in the bows and now have a pair of Vickers guns to the stern, designed to shoot at aeroplanes and a two pounder pompom set abaft the funnel and on a sort of a bandstand which makes it able to train to the stern as well as to either beam. A new ready-use locker and an extension to the magazine, all in place. One more hand, a trained gunlayer. All five of us the same.”

“Why, sir? It’s a new weapon to the Navy, so why give it to trawlers… Belay that, sir! The answer is in the question. It is new and the Admiral has had a dozen dumped on him and don’t want them – Nelson never used pompoms so why should he? He has to put them into use and we are the least significant unit in the Mediterranean Fleet. Any left can be set to training purposes.”

Skipper Murchison was still not habituated to Naval ways of thought; he checked to see if Christopher was joking.

“No, sir. Unfortunately, not. I’ll name a crew for action stations and we can get some practice in on passage. As I remember, it’s a short-range weapon, five cables, I think, and meant to be used against aeroplanes. The Turks haven’t got any planes that I recall. Not to worry! It can be used just as well against dhows.”

“Quick firing, two pound explosive shells – it will make a mess of a wooden hull.”

“Could be highly effective, sir. Be careful what you put into any report. If the Admiral has given them to us he won’t want to be told that they are useful weapons.”

“The games you bloody navy types play, Adams! Couldn’t you just get on with winning the war?”

“Don’t be silly, sir! The war is a minor interruption in one’s career. A boy entering Dartmouth at thirteen or so will hope to serve for forty years. A war of four or five years duration is no more than an incident. It provides the opportunity for promotion, perhaps, but it is more important to ensure that one does not tread on superiors’ toes by being too overtly heroic or efficient. Wiser far to proceed cautiously, sir, and above all, do nothing wrong. You saw what happened at the Dardanelles, after all. A bit of a risk and perhaps a modern battleship lost, and the campaign could have been won. The admiral chose to withdraw rather than risk Queen Elisabeth, newest of the fleet. The Navy without exception believes he was right. More important not to lose a new ship than to win a battle!”

“God help us all!”

“He does, sir. God is an Englishman, after all.”

“They are said to be losing thousands in the Gallipoli campaign, which is necessary only because the Navy failed at the Dardanelles.”

“Soldiers, sir. None of the Navy’s business. Not even English, most of them.”

“You are a cynic, Adams. You are right to be so. Let’s get to the coaling berth!”

Coaling a small trawler was an easier business than taking thousands of tons aboard a battleship. They were barely two hours at the berth, most of that spent waiting their turn.

They pottered across to the munitions wharf, hoses playing on the decks to get rid of the coal dust.

“Full magazines, Mr Adams. Extra three-o-three this time, for the Vickers and our rifles. I have put in for revolvers for the boarders, hopefully.”

“Unwise, sir. They will issue you with cutlasses. Any money you like, they will!”

Murchison did not believe him, was left open-mouthed when a party of fellahin were sent aboard carrying forty blades.

“Beg pardon, sir. Grindstone to follow. Must be sharp. One fellah to stay aboard to sharpen and polish the valuable swords, sir.”

The Egyptians were chased ashore, their crates of cutlasses thrown after them.

Christopher laughed as the officer in charge protested.

“You have boarding parties, you must have cutlasses. Admiralty regulations!”

“Balls to the Admiralty, mister! If you have revolvers, I will take them. If you haven’t, rifles or short carbines will do. Bayonets if you have such things. Your cutlasses, mister, you can stick where the sun don’t shine!”

The officer in charge was an ancient post-captain, forty years at the Gun Wharf and climbed only recently to his eminence. He was indignant and debated calling for the arrest of the insolent trawlerman. He had heard the rumours of the behaviour of skippers at Malta, and that they had succeeded in getting their own way, the Admiral himself defeated by their intransigence. He capitulated.

“Sidearms, officers, for the use of – I have fifteen, three for each trawler, and forty-five calibre rounds. They are the wrong sort, sent to us in error. American guns, would you believe! I have not issued them, obviously, not for the Royal Navy!”

Christopher listened and intervened.

“Excellent, sir. We need one for each boarder, a total of one hundred and fifty.”

That was impossible. It could not be done. They compromised on forty-five and two packets of fifty rounds for each revolver.

Christopher oversaw the delivery to each of the trawlers and then double-checked the remainder of the indents to each ship. They sailed away with magazines completely full.

“How did you know, Adams? He said he had just fifteen.”

“Wrong number, sir. Ordnance would never deliver just fifteen of anything. He probably has four hundred or so, might be more. It’s just that he would never wish to issue anything, on principle. You don’t get promotion by putting weapons into the hands of sailors. Better far that everything stays neatly on the shelves, looking tidy. If you issue guns and ammunition, you leave gaps and you have to indent for more from England, suggesting you have been spendthrift and careless in giving valuable stock away. Wasteful officers do not rise in the world!”

“Are you serious?”

“Damned right, I am, sir! Thing is, sir, you are hostilities only, here for the purpose of fighting a war. You, as a result, think the war is important. The Navy still thinks the war is a sideshow. All of the senior officers have spent their careers at peace and have formed their habits of thought in polishing the brass and showing majestic in foreign ports. War is an intrusion into the proper naval ways of doing things, and they resist it. Most of them don’t understand what is happening or why. You still hear them saying that submarines are ‘unfair’ and expecting the Kaiser to realise he is cheating and withdraw them from the war. We have a Navy of old buffers who are jolly good chaps – bloody hopeless!”

“God help England!”

“Too late, sir.”

They sailed, lost in their own thoughts. East of Alexandria by an hour, on their way to the Canal, they crossed the course of an old battleship coming south from Gallipoli to the dockyard to repair shell damage. They dipped their ensigns in salute and proceeded on their way.

“Adams! That old battlewagon is signalling. For us, I think!”

Christopher had been belowdecks checking the charts for the Red Sea, trying to work out a best course and memorise his turning points. He ran up to the bridge, glanced across to the battleship’s signalling mast, translated the flags for Murchison.

“What ship? Why are you in disorder?”

“What does he mean, Adams?”

Christopher gestured astern to the four other trawlers, in no formation, two of them close alongside and shouting to each other, the remaining pair in company and more or less in line abreast, none of them much more than a hundred yards distant.

“Ships on passage are to maintain line ahead at a precise interval of two cables, sir. Naval regulations, sir.”

“Balls to that! They are all in easy sight of each other and of me. That’s all I want. Make, ‘me no savvy’, Adams. Play the game.”

Christopher shook his head and climbed up high on top of the wheelhouse and semaphored, slowly.

‘HM Trawler Hans Heine. Bound for Red Sea.’

He jumped down and waited, gave Murchison the reply.

“Heave to and wait for boat, sir.”

“Tell him I am under orders to make best speed for Port Suez, Adams.”

Christopher climbed back up and semaphored again, performing the movements of hands and arms very slowly and deliberately.

He watched as the battleship acknowledged while coming round to make a shelter for the steam picket boat it was dropping from its davits. He took up his glasses and watched as a white cap swarmed down the falls and took position in the stern.

“Officer aboard the boat, sir. Commander, by the looks of him. Probably a senior captain in command to make such a fuss and send his second; one of the oldest of the old school. Steam picket boat has a speed of maybe eight knots, sir, when she is up to full pressure. Stoker will still be building a head of steam and she is half a mile distant. She might just be able to intercept us, coming from off the port bow. Can’t change our course, sir; mustn’t be seen to run away.”

Murchison whistled down the engineroom voicepipe, called for steam for ten knots.

“Jimmy!”

A deckhand looked up inquiringly.

“Shout across to whoever’s nearest, tell them to make ten knots for the while.”

Jimmy ran to the stern and bellowed.

“Good voice on him, that lad, sir.”

“Strong lungs, our Jim, Adams.”

The picket boat fell into their wake, never able to catch up with them. They waved to the gesticulating officer aboard her.

“We will face disciplinary action when we get back to Alex, sir.”

“You might, Adams. I shall claim I did not understand and simply carried out my orders.”

“Good enough, sir. I shall blame you and smile sweetly.”

Murchison laughed.

“Make a good pair, we do, Adams. I have nothing to gain and you’ve got nothing to lose. Makes us untouchable!”

No message was sent to the naval authorities at Port Said or Port Suez and they made their transit of the Canal without difficulty, delaying only to top up their water before heading down into the Red Sea and its heat.

They formed line abreast within sight of the Arabian coast and started their search to the south, making eight knots during the daylight hours and pottering at no more than two in the night. Traffic was ordinarily busy and the trawlers stopped and searched local craft every hour. They discovered nothing – the boats were carrying grain to Jeddah, mostly, in readiness for the Haj, the great pilgrimage, due within weeks.

Late of an afternoon, a few miles south of Jeddah they spotted their first steamer, a tiny tramp. Hans Heine stopped her and held her under her guns and sent a boat across.

There were almost no English speakers aboard the smallest ships; unusually, the steamer had a mate who was fluent. Christopher was called across to him, found himself talking to a light-skinned Indian man, dressed casually as a low seaman.

“Where from, sir?”

There was no harm in being polite; the man might be so surprised by courtesy as to forget to lie.

“Out of Bombay, sir, bound for Jeddah. Our cargo is rice in bags, in its entirety.”

“What tonnage?”

“Three hundred tons, sir.”

“Have you offloaded a part cargo already?”

“No, sir.”

Christopher stared at the Indian mate, wondering just what was going on. The ship was of no great size, yet he thought she was more than a three hundred tonner. Profits were not made from running ships half-empty. He whistled to his petty officer, in charge of the naval part of the crew.

“PO, rummage the holds. Cargo should be rice solely.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The ship was old, three island configuration, the bridge placed centrally and a raised forecastle and poop. She had two holds, one fore, the other aft of the bridge, normal for the sort of ship. The PO trotted forward, pulled the covers off the forward hold and led three men down, leaving two men with rifles to guard the deck. He was out within ten minutes.

“Stacked with one hundredweight jute sacks of rice, sir. All properly laid and looking right, sir. A count says about three hundred bags to each layer and about twenty layers deep, sir.”

That would make three hundred tons in itself.

“After hold should be empty in that case. Check it PO. Carefully. Wait a moment!”

He turned to Jimmy, ordered him to yell across to Skipper Murchison to close on the freighter and turn the Vickers and pompom on her, ready to open fire.

“Mr Mate!”

“Yes, captain, sir?”

“What am I about to find in the after hold?”

Christopher drew his heavy Colt revolver and pointed it at the mate’s belly.

“You take first shot, if anything goes wrong, mister.”

The mate called to his master, waved him across gabbling anxiously.

“Sir, my owner will speak. I will say his words to you.”

“Go ahead. First though, are there soldiers in the hold?”

“Soldiers? Sepoys? No, no! None of those. Not one, sir. How could there be?”

“Turkish soldiers?”

“No! Not them. We fight them, sir.”

Christopher nodded to the PO to examine the after hold, was asked to stop him.

“He will find rifles, sir, and bullets under a layer of bags of rice. Millions of them, the bullets, and two thousands of the rifles, the best, from the arsenals, though not known to the Indian Army, sir. Please do not disturb the cover, sir. The officials in Jeddah are idle men who will not look below the first bags, provided all looks right.”

“And where will these munitions go to?”

“Jeddah, where they land as crates of mutton in cans, from Australia, so it says on them. They will go inland, somewhere, to the Arabs who are in rebellion against the Ottomans. I swear that to be truth, sir.”

There were vague stories circulating in Alexandria of uprisings among the desert Arabs – the cause was supposed to relate to religious purity, the Ottomans in some way heretic according to the Arabs.

“Who has sent this cargo? Who is it consigned from?”

The master did not know; he was sure that the manifest he had was false. He had been paid in advance, in coin, by a sahib, a soldier, he thought, standing tall and straight. The mate was very convincing in his translation, offered the tale in the most ingenuous fashion.

“The owner was English, sir. Most definitely. I have sailed four times to England, to London thrice and to Southampton, and have listened to the way the sahibs speak there.”

“Have you now? What of you? Who are you? Show me your seaman’s card and papers.”

It occurred to Christopher that the mate was too English in his accent, too easily fluent, lacked the consistent pattern of speech of a foreigner, he was distinctly pale of skin as well; all that  might be for being a half-caste, given an education by a white father.

The mate suddenly whispered.

“Steady on, old chap! Don’t make too much fuss – the captain knows but the crew don’t and I would prefer it to stay that way. Mason, Captain, Bengal Native Infantry. On detachment these last few years.”

He made a play of presenting a much-folded, greasy sheet of paper, giving his identity as a seaman.

Christopher took the sheet, glanced at it and handed it back.

“Very well. Carry on with the good work. You pass muster.”

He turned away, showing nothing.

“PO! Back to the boat. Everything is as it should be.”

The party showed puzzled but obedient, the naval ratings prodding the trawlermen to obey.

“My apologies for delaying you in your voyage, sir.”

Aboard Hans Heine and Christopher explained all to Murchison.

“You took a risk, letting him go, Adams.”

“I did, I know. If he’s a renegade, selling arms to the Turks, I am in trouble. But the Ottomans are getting their military supplies from Germany. They don’t use our calibre rifles. Not likely they would want them. It’s worth the risk, I think. It’s the sort of thing Intelligence does – the Great Game, you know.”

Murchison agreed it probably was.

“Not my neck on the line anyway, Adams. Did the boarding party work out, mixing naval hands with the trawlermen?”

“Fairly well. I think we need to mix them more day-to-day. At the moment, the naval hands are the gunners, your people are the seamen. Might be well to train them all on the guns, so that they can spell each other if needs be and replace casualties if the case arises. Get them to work together and make a crew of them rather than two separate lots. They are friendly enough already. Just take it one step further.”

“I’ll give the order and pass it to the other boats. Do you think I should nominate a second among the skippers, Adams?”

“So that we can split into two sections, sir? It might make sense… Can’t do any harm. What rank are the other skippers?”

“All lieutenant commanders. That was part of the contract made with the trawler companies before the war when we joined the Reserve. There was an agreement as well that any Naval officers joining us would be lieutenants so that they would be advisors, not in position to give orders.”

“Makes sense, from your point of view. Why did the Navy do it?”

“We were all going to be minesweepers, originally. Then they changed their mind and paid the owners more for us to go foreign. They didn’t up our wages!”

“Unsurprising. The Navy don’t believe in pay – the honour of serving one’s country should be sufficient reward.”

“That’s a load of balls, Adams!”

“You’ll hear no argument from me, sir.”

“No, I suppose not. Continue to the south, I think. What do you say, Adams?”

“Almost down to Aden as fast as we can, sir. A dozen dhows will have made port yesterday and today to say that we are busy here. Good idea to go somewhere else. Ten knots and quickly to the Bab al Mandab and block the straits to all comers and see what turns up.”

“What’s this ‘Great Game’ business, Adams?”

“India, originally. Playing spies up on the North West Frontier. Mainly against the Russians who were, probably still are, paying the Afghans to attack India and Persia. We paid the Afghans to kill Russians and Persians. The Persians paid the Afghans to attack all comers. Dozens of junior officers done up in blackface and galloping about the hilltribes creating mayhem and having a jolly good time – traditional now for public schoolboys who like amateur theatre and who don’t fit into the Regiment too well. The whisper is that most of them are queer as a chocolate teapot and fit in well with the native warriors, if you know what I mean. Keeps them out of harm’s way in the cantonments in India and kills most of them off young. Ask the colonels about the Great Game and watch them snigger!”

“Peculiar lot, you English, Adams! What do you reckon this Captain Mason will be doing when he gets to Jeddah?”

“He’ll change into Arab robes and take his camel caravan out into the Empty Quarter and hand over his rifles to the tribes there. He’ll be fluent in Arabic and half a dozen other languages, I don’t doubt. He’ll have a really jolly time, don’t you know!”

Murchison had no understanding of that particular sort of gentleman.

“Read your Kipling, sir. It don’t make a lot of sense. All very heroic, though. Might be more useful to the war than anything we’re doing!”

They swept south, enduring the heat and humidity, suffering in small ships designed for Arctic waters. The awnings they had cobbled up did some good and pushing the speed as high as they could manage, ten or more knots most days, produced a little wind, though doing the stokers no favours. Mostly they sat in the shade, taking thirty minute stretches exposed to the sun as lookouts and otherwise simply, silently enduring.

They drank water and Egyptian beer and took their salt tablets and sweated, looking longingly over the side and wondering whether they dared take a swim. The sharks they saw so frequently seemed to be inviting them in.

“Are they maneaters, Mr Adams?”

“So I’m told, Jimmy. I don’t know for sure. I’m not sticking my foot in the water to find out.”

“Bugger that!”

A lookout hailed in late afternoon, well towards Bab al Mandab, close to the islands south of Hodeida.

“Tromso is signalling, sir. Got a bloke on the wheelhouse roof waving a towel or something and pointing southeast.”

“Close her, Adams?”

“Best thing, sir. Call action stations, sir?”

“Do it.”

Tromso was furthest east of their line and the other four came together and headed towards her, forming an arrowhead. Christopher yelled across and they shouted back, waving in friendly fashion.

“Jimmy! Yell them to go to action stations. Man the guns!”

There was much bellowing, both ways.

“They say it’s bloody hot out in the sun on the guns, sir.”

“Tell them to wear their hats and put their shirts on! All guns loaded and ready to open fire.”

The trawlermen moaned and reluctantly obeyed.

Ten minutes and they were within hailing distance of Tromso.

“Four bloody steamers, mister! Saw us and turned away. Coming onto a more southerly course now. We’re closing slowly. Be dark before we get up to them.”

The trawlers were slow, they did not need speed in their occupation. Most steamers could probably match them.

“Don’t like it, sir. They ought to be able to keep a distance on us. Might be they are running just slow enough that we’ll come up to them after nightfall, sir.”

Murchison thought for a few seconds.

“Then, either they turn about and sneak north, past us, in the night, or they wait and shoot hell out of us as we reach them.”

“Likely, I think, sir.”

“Shit!”

Murchison fell silent, scratching his backside to aid his thought processes.

“Got it, Adams. Drop off a knot or so. Let it seem we can’t catch them. Take a leg north for a couple of hours after dark and then heave to until about three hours before dawn. About three in the morning, we turn our heads south and crawl down towards them, the five of us close, line abeam so we can all use the four inchers. When we get near them, if we do, then turn again to bring the pompoms and Vickers into play as well.”

“Might work, sir. If they keep on south, we’ve lost them.”

“So we have. Then we wait here in the narrows and see if they come back again. If they don’t, then whatever they were doing, they won’t have done it. If they do come back, we’ll be in a position to take a pop at them. Maybe.”

They announced the decision then asked Tromso if they had any detail of the four steamers.

“Nay, not to say detail, as such. There was four of them, two and two, bigger and smaller, ye ken. At a guess, there was a pair of merchant ships, coal burners, two stacks, something like three thousand tonners, big trampers, ye might say; old boats throwing out thick clouds of smoke. The other pair was not so big but looked more like warships – longer and leaner, not for carrying cargo. Bigger nor us by some way.”

Christopher was less than enthused.

“There was mention of a pair of gunboats supposed to be hanging about down south, sir.”

“Aye, so there was. You managed to deal with a cruiser, did you not?”

“We did, sir. Took her by surprise and shot her to bits before she woke up. Old, as well. The gunboats might be new and certainly will be awake.”

“Well, gives us the chance to put them to sleep again. Worth trying, Adams.”

It occurred to Christopher that the Arctic fisheries would not breed a mild sort of seaman – hard men and well up for a fight, in fact.

“Get in close and make use of the pompoms, sir. It might work. Load up all of the belts we have to hand overnight, sir.”

They set to work, bringing up additional ready-use to the four inch and pulling out the spare canvas belts for the pompoms and settling the little forty mm shells into them.

“Are they explosive or shrapnel, Adams?”

“It will say on the boxes, sir.”

“So it does. Load half the belts with explosive rounds, the other half shrapnel – mark the belts up to see which is which easily. If them tramp ships is full of soldiers, which would be what the Admiral was expecting, then shrapnel will do a better job while the four inch is sinking them.”

It struck Christopher that Murchison had an amount of military knowledge.

“Were you busy during the Boer War, sir?”

“Aye, I was. Must have been nigh on a hundred of us out of Fraserburgh and the havens nearby volunteered and went out. The most of us came back, too, after a busy year or so. Not like these soft Sassenachs from their factories as were dying like flies for bad food and hard lying out in the bush there. An interesting time, it was. They made me a lieutenant by the end of it.”

Christopher was not surprised.

“I thought you had more than ordinary knowledge of shrapnel and such, sir.”

“Aye, well, a man must keep his eyes and ears open, young Adams! What do ye propose for the morning?”

“Your plan will work if they are there, sir. We will take casualties. If I could suggest, make sure that each skipper knows to form line on you and watch your helm. We will close on the Turks – if that is what they are – in line abreast, only the four inch bearing and must turn at least thirty degrees as soon as we are inside a thousand yards to allow the pompoms and Vickers to fire. It will be as well for each skipper to know your intent, sir.”

“It will, too. Jimmy!”

Jimmy roared and the five boats clustered together and briefly talked tactics, all very casually and informally.

“Will the Vickers be useful at close range, sir? They are on high-angle mountings, are they not?”

“They are, Adams, officially, that is. I know the lads have worked on ours so they will come to the horizontal as well. Good with their hands, trawlermen, used to fixing their own machinery at sea. Can’t return half-empty just because a winch or somesuch has broken, man!”

It was not the way things were done in the real Navy. It was possible that the Navy was wrong in some of its ways, Christopher concluded. Not to worry, it was no concern of his, not any longer.

They fell back from the chase and turned north after dark and before moonrise, the trawlers blacked out and as silent as they could manage. Two hours at a quiet three knots and they hove-to, the five side by side and comfortable.

“Get your head down, Adams. Four hours before we get under way and you need some sleep. You are not one of us – trawlermen sleep an hour at a time every third day, man – well known fact! You soft Navy boys need your beauty sleep!”

It was friendly banter, even if less than tactful. Christopher did as he was advised.

The moon was still high when they headed south, the sky cloud-free, as nearly always. They set a pair of lookouts in the bows and picked up speed, having decided that they wanted to enter action, if it occurred, at more than a crawl.

An hour and the lookouts called something black due south. Christopher joined them, picked up a dark lump in the distance.

“An island? Maybe thick black coal smoke…”

He ran to the wheelhouse.

“Might be clouds of smoke. If the Turks are pushing those old tramps to full speed, they will be churning it out, from all Tromso said.”

“Well thought, Adams. Jimmy! Pass the word down the line. All to man the guns and put one up the spout.”

“Aye, wish I was back home and doing just that, Skipper! Dorothea! Man the bloody guns and load ‘em! Pass the word!”

“Go back up the bows, Adams. See if you can spot their course. When’s moonset?”

“About thirty minutes. I don’t have an almanac aboard to give precise times.”

“Didn’t know there was such things, Adams! Half an hour will do. If can be, it would be useful to start shooting while we had a bit of light. Any luck, one of them will catch fire and give us a target while we stay less easy seen out in the dark. Not a simple task, aiming at gun flashes.”

Five minutes and Christopher was content that the black mass to the south was coal smoke and that it was moving somewhat east of north and at as much as ten knots.

“Crossing our bows at a slight diagonal, sir and at most two miles distant. Probably at that point in ten to fifteen minutes. Can’t be more accurate in this light, sir. We are making about eight knots now?”

“Aye… Was we to push up to eleven, say, Adams, we would be within range of the pompoms and Vickers as they crossed us.”

Christopher quickly checked the calculations in his head, agreed it to be so. Murchison called down the engineroom voicepipe for full speed.

“Jimmy! Shout eleven knots and hold close and ready to turn three points to port.”

The message went down the short line, the trawlers no more than fifty yards apart.

“Do ye wish to pick up a rifle, Adams? It will give ye something to do when we’re busy.”

“Every little helps, sir.”

Christopher noticed four of the deckhands carrying Lee-Enfields, handling them casually and familiarly. He shrugged and took one of the pair in the wheelhouse. He had been trained in the rifle at Dartmouth, was competent but doubted he was the match of the men on deck – they looked wholly at home with the weapons.

“Boer War with you, sir?”

“Aye, all four of them. They know what they’re doing. They’ll keep heads down on the bridge of one of they gunboats.”

They waited to be spotted, the layer of the four inch keeping his gun on the foremost black lump, now just visible as a warship, lower and leaner than a merchantman and with a tall mast that no commercial steamer needed.

“Within the mile, I would say, Adams.”

“Moon setting almost behind them, sir. We are out in the dark.”

“We are so, man. Well positioned; ye placed us well. They must be making a good twelve knots. Fast for tramp ships. They will have selected the best they had, no doubt.”

They waited another minute.

“Four cables, I would say, sir.”

Biggar heaved on the wheel and shouted to open fire. The four inch gave its crack and the other four joined in within the second, reloading fast even in the dark.

“Jimmy! Shout Tromso and Bergen to aim for the rear pair!”

The pompoms joined in, followed by the Vickers and they spotted hits aboard their targets.

The darkness began to ease and they could pick out all four ships clearly.

“Lead gunboat is falling off course, sir. On fire towards the stern.”

Christopher lifted the rifle to his shoulder and loosed ten rounds rapid that he thought might have come aboard the lead boat.

“Showing willing, sir!”

“Every mickle, they say, Adams!”

Fire was coming their way, the second gunboat manning a pair of twelve pounders or something like. There was an explosion aboard Bergen at the end of the line and she fell out of the formation. A heavy automatic opened up from the leading Turk and hosed across Dorothea.

“Hotchkiss revolving gun, likely sir…”

Two pompoms responded, targeting the automatic gun’s position, silencing it. Dorothea’s four inch opened fire again after a slight delay, presumably with new crew. The Vickers from the four remaining trawlers were firing prolonged bursts, using up belt after belt. Christopher hoped they knew what they were doing, had a useful target.

The second gunboat fell silent, fire spreading rapidly on her foredeck as a ready-use locker blew. The lead boat disappeared, an explosion ripping off her stern and sinking her in the second.

“Torpedo warhead, maybe, Adams?”

“Could be, sir. I don’t recognise the boats. Fairly new. Only twelve pounders so likely to have tubes as main armament.”

There was a another, lesser explosion and they turned to the tramps, one of them showing a mass of steam as well as coal smoke.

“Hit her boiler, sir. She has a flag flying…”

“Returning fire as well, Adams.”

There were soldiers firing rifles, a lot of them. The trawlers turned all of their attention to the merchant ships, hulling them repeatedly, the quick firers churning out five rounds a minute at close range and repeatedly penetrating the thin plate of the unarmoured hulls.

“They’re going, both of them, sir!”

The one capsized, slowly, showing hundreds of troops falling and jumping overboard. The other sank quickly by the stern, water ripping through the bulkheads and taking her down inside the minute. Neither launched a boat.

“Rescue, sir? Oh, Christ!”

The rising sun showed a sea turned red with blood. Sharks by the hundred were tearing into the men in the water, ripping them apart. They closed the site, were unable to pick up a single survivor.

They came away, sickened by the screams and wails of agony.

“Dorothea has wounded men aboard and two dead, sir. Bergen has damage and four dead, no wounded, as well. Can’t risk sending them back on their own. We have all expended a large amount of ammunition, sir.”

They turned about and made haste to the Canal and then to Alexandria, preferring to take their wounded to naval doctors rather than set them ashore to unknown military or civilian hospitals.

The Admiral took their reports and then called Christopher to his presence.

“Commander Murchison has made it clear that you played a major part in his victory, Adams. He has been promoted and decorated. I cannot recommend that for you, as you will know. What I can do is offer you a second chance, Adams. Nothing great – the Admiralty will not tolerate it – but I am sending you to Black Prince, sister ship to Connaught, as you will know, as second to the Navigator there, still as a lieutenant. A year there and you can perhaps be promoted and will at least have a service record that will permit you to return to England. You will still send your papers in at war’s end – can’t do anything about that. You have a Mention – should have been a DSC but that is not possible. You will be able to make a respectable life as a civilian now, Adams. Commander Murchison says you can sail with him on the fisheries, if you wish. You would become a skipper in a couple of years, he says.”

Christopher made his thanks, refusing the offer of a fishing boat.

“I am not that fierce a man, sir. Nor that skilled a sailor.”

The Admiral did not approve – no sailors could be as skilled as those of the Royal Navy.

He left the office on his way to Black Prince, his life turned upside down again. There was hope for a future now. Not in the Navy, for sure. He could expect to make a single promotion if the war lasted more than a year. A lieutenant commander was respectable, gave him back his name; he could be accepted in Society and in the City. He whistled as he strode out along the quayside.

Chapter Thirteen

The battalion marched back into camp, almost all together, backs straight, rifles slung, heads up, singing their version of Tipperary.

‘It’s a long way to tickle Mary…’

The rest, Richard mused, was not for officers to take notice of.

“Looks good, ‘Major. Stragglers?”

“Just four, sir, in the wagon. One of them you would not believe, sir. Stepped aside to make water in the ten minutes break and splashed onto a wasps’ nest, sir. All stung and swollen, the poor lad!”

They tried not to howl with laughter.

“We can accept that as legitimate excuse for dropping off the pace, ‘Major. What of the other three?”

“Two blisters and one had a skinfull of beer last night and could not be marching this morning. O’Rafferty and Smith Four, the blisters, both from their boot soles cracking under their feet, poor fellows! The quality of the boots we are issuing, sir, is terrible poor!”

“Take them to Doctor Pearce and then to stores, ‘Major. The poor lad with wasps as well to the sick bay – who was that?”

“Prendergast, sir. Who else would it be?”

The boy had joined from grammar school where he had been a star pupil. He was distinguished for his mastery of the classics; unfortunately, he had shown himself better suited for the library than the field.

“True enough – if there is to be an accident, it will happen to him. Can’t mark him off as unfit to serve, but he will be our first casualty, almost for sure, poor fellow. He walks around under a cloud of ill fortune! What of the drinker?”

“Davies, sir, C Company. Welsh, from the valleys, look you. Never fallen off the wagon in his life before, never touched a drop of the demon rum, poor lad. Went into town with the platoon last night and was tempted. Took a whole three pints of best bitter, they said, before he was falling down drunk.”

“Take him to one side and have a quiet word with him, ‘Major. We ought to give him toco but I don’t know I could keep a straight face. Give the platoon a rollicking for leading him astray.”

“Yes, sir. The battalion is ready, sir. We could take them out to Flanders now.”

“I shall speak to Brigade this morning, ‘Major. What of the officers? None of them fell out, I trust?”

“Almost all present and correct, sir. Second Lieutenant Mayhew collapsed coughing up blood before we reached the gate. He is at the Doctor’s still. Most of them made a show of outmarching the men. All except Major Templeton, that is, sir, who dropped out at the main gate as we left camp, sir.”

And that was the next job for the morning, Richard reflected; Templeton had not completed more than a mile of a single march. He entered the offices and found Templeton sat down at his desk. The tabletop was empty, nothing there other than a blotter with pen and ink laid out. He was obviously intending to leave, never to return to the premises – difficult for a serving officer, unless he had a premonition of death.

“There is a letter on your desk, sir. Permission to withdraw, sir?”

He was definitely not coming back. Let him go or place him under medical care?

The man was a damned nuisance, a hindrance reducing the everyday level of efficiency of the battalion.

“Permission granted.”

The letter was long and rambling, basically accused Richard of being ungentlemanly in forcing the Major out of the battalion and leaving him with no useful purpose in his military existence. He much trusted that Richard would be ashamed of himself. It ended on a pathetic note.

‘I have donated my small savings to the Mess Fund. My possessions may go to auction for the same purpose.’

“How very melodramatic! Sergeant Cooper!”

The administration sergeant came in at the run, alerted by Richard’s tone.

“File this letter. Then go across to Major Templeton’s billet and do what is necessary. Read it.”

Cooper, aware of Richard’s contempt for his major and prepared for upheaval, glanced through the letter. He would maintain discretion, mentioning its contents only to his closest mates; it would be known throughout the battalion inside the day.

“Topped himself, sir! Must have if he’s given his money away. Better here than in France, sir. Damned nuisance, sir! I’ll speak to the Doctor and organise a coffin… Better go across and make sure he hasn’t changed his mind, sir. Be a right old mess if I indented for a coffin, majors, for the use of, and he hadn’t shot himself!”

Richard turned to the telephone, had a brief conversation with Brigadier Braithwaite while he waited. He could ask for a replacement for Templeton – even the threat of suicide was sufficient to get rid of him.

Sergeant Cooper had nothing to worry about. The Major had done all that was necessary and had been considerate enough to use a small bore target pistol borrowed from the range to avoid the mess a service revolver would have made.

“Very tidy, sir.” Doctor Pearce was inclined to approve. “Up through his ear and into the brain pan, the little round rattling around inside the cranium and stirring the brain up in its passing. Very thorough and little blood. Most competent thing I have seen him do, sir.”

“The only competent action in his existence, I suspect. Have a word with the padre, will you, Doctor – persuade him it ain’t really a suicide and he can give him a military send off. Keep it tidy. What about young Mayhew?”

“On his way to the hospital outside Salisbury, sir. I suspect something to do with the lungs, but it could be a ruptured ulcer, though he is young for that. Might be damage to the trachea – and I have no idea what could do that. I do not think we shall see him again, even if he lives, and that I am uncertain about. Pity – he seemed a pleasant lad.”

“Yes, he would have made a competent subaltern.”

There was no other obituary, no mark of the boy’s passing – he was gone and the small hole he left must be filled.

The Brigadier came onto the telephone.

“Got a replacement for you, Baker, for the Major. I am looking for a second lieutenant, but that should be easy to find. The Major is from India, wounded and sent home and recovered on the voyage and anxious to see the war. He will join you on Monday. You will entrain on the Thursday following for Salisbury and Southampton Docks. Should be in France for Friday afternoon and in transport up to the line on Saturday. You are taking the weekend, are you not?”

“Yes, sir. My family is meeting with the Elkthorns, dinner and reception in the evening. It promises to be entertaining. Primrose tells me that her father has mobilised the whole clan to give him moral support. We have only the four – my two sisters and my parents, to stand against the masses.”

Saturday saw Richard waiting at the hotel for his family to arrive, surprised to see them only three strong.

“No Vicky, sir?”

“Damned fool girl has run away, Richard! Left a letter to say that she is of age and has gone off to join up to do her bit.”

“Good girl. She said she wanted to become a driver in the FANY.”

“The bloody what?”

Mr Baker had not heard of the Field Auxiliary Nursing Yeomanry, it would seem. It was an unfortunate set of initials.

“I may well see her in France, sir.

“Bloody disgraceful! Don’t know what she thinks she’s doing. Now we’ve got Alexandra saying she wants to become a Land Girl. She’ll stay at home and look after her mother! She can dig up the gardens for potatoes, if she wishes.”

“I presume you will teach her to drive, sir?”

Mr Baker was not enthralled at that prospect.

“No damned choice! No taxis and I can’t be available to do the driving in the day. Next thing you know, she’ll be running off too!”

It was less likely, they agreed in the end. Alexandra was not the adventurous sort.

“What about this farmer of hers, sir?”

“That bloody fool! He’s turned his farm over to an old uncle and has joined up. Taken a commission as a cornet of cavalry with the Northamptonshire Yeomanry, of all the stupid things to do at the age of thirty!”

“Do they still have cornets? Very old-fashioned!”

“Bloody Yeomanry for you! They are supposed to call them second lieutenants but stick to the old ways.”

“Where are they posted?”

“Egypt. The Suez Canal, they tell me. What they are going to do with horses in the bloody desert, I don’t know!”

“More than they can in France, for sure. They are useless there.”

The women had brought a maidservant with them, to assist with their evening dress. The result was slightly provincial, in the nature of things, and wholly acceptable. Mr Baker donned his evening dress without assistance and looked none the worse for it. Richard had Paisley with him, managed to achieve full dress uniform, with miniature medal, in the most formal style.

They met in the lobby to take a pair of taxis to the Elkthorns.

“Not seen you dressed up like that, my son. You look impressive.”

“Not bad yourself, sir – for a man of your age!”

They laughed and preened and pretended not to notice the stares of other guests, most of them approving of the obvious father and son. Richard picked up a whisper from the desk, the clerk answering a question.

“That is Colonel Baker, my lady.”

He did not hear the response, was not entirely displeased to be the centre of attention.

Arriving at Elkthorn House, he was disconcerted to be announced before his parents, the butler having no doubts about precedence.

To his relief, his mother was overawed and forgot to flutter helplessly, behaving like a sensible person for perhaps the first time he could remember. He wondered briefly whether it was her only protection against an overbearing husband. It was not his business to intervene in his parents’ private affairs and he ignored it.

Primrose, dressed as fine as ever, came to his side and remained there through the introductions, offering brief comments where necessary.

“My aunt, father’s side. Widowed and pleased to be. No children living. Worth fifty thousand when she cocks her toes up. Smile at her!”

Richard obeyed orders, hoping his love’s whispers were as hushed as she thought.

The family was there to a few second cousins, the younger generation predominantly female, including only two young men, one of whom took pains to display a limp.

“Took a toss with the local hunt five years back, Colonel! Leg ain’t as straight as it used to be!”

Primrose commented that it was not so bad as to prevent him dancing in the nightclubs he frequented.

The other was a rising political figure, secretary to Lord Elkthorn and necessary to the processes of government.

“Can’t be spared from Westminster, Colonel! Whenever I have raised the question, I have been ordered to remain!”

“We cannot all be where we wish to be, Mr Huntington.”

Richard would not mention his suspicion that Huntington was exactly where he intended to remain.

A dozen of older couples, aunts and uncles by birth and marriage, shook Richard’s hand and were pleased to meet him; all mentioned sons in France or still training and scowled at Huntington.

“Do you return to France this year, Colonel Baker?”

“On Thursday, sir. The division is assembling and will take over a section of the Trenches at the weekend, I am informed. I cannot say I am happy to go, having reason to stay in London! Even so, there is no other place for a man to be. You will not have met my father, Mr Baker of Kettering…”

The conversation was easy to maintain in this early part of the evening.

Dinner was long and formal, serving to present the Bakers for inspection by the mass of the family. They were observed to eat correctly and to behave properly – would not embarrass the Elkthorns in public.

The ladies withdrew, to subject the Baker females to a delicate grilling in the drawing room; the men clustered around the head of the table and drank port and talked indiscreetly of the war and government.

“What’s the chance of the war ending this year, Colonel Baker?”

“Very slight, sir. We lack numbers, guns and ammunition. I doubt it is possible to break through the trenches at present. The war might end if the campaign in Turkey is successful and the troops there are able to attack Austria-Hungary from the Black Sea. I have not seen the reports from Gallipoli.”

“Disaster, Colonel! Forget about victory there. The sole question being considered now is how to get out safely. The army has been put ashore there and it will not be easy to take it off again.”

“Then, sir, we have a war for at least another year. Kitchener’s New Army may do the job for us next summer, if it is used properly.”

“And what will that proper use be, Colonel?”

“Invasion, my lord. Land a hundred thousand men on the German coast north of Holland. Set up a front and push hard towards Kiel and Hamburg, forcing the Kaiser to pull troops from France and weaken his resistance there. It would lose half of the Grand Fleet, I do not doubt, to mines and submarines, and the Navy will not like that, but it would force the Kaiser to call an armistice and to pull his troops out of France and Belgium.”

“Risky, Colonel! A chancy expedition, and we cannot afford to send millions of pounds worth of dreadnoughts to the bottom. We must keep the fleet-in-being intact.”

It was not the place to argue. If the fleet was to be unused, it had as well never been built in Richard’s unvoiced opinion.

“What do you think of Sir John French. Colonel Baker?”

“A cavalryman, sir. He is used to allowing his horse to think for him on the field of battle. Regrettably, the horse cannot deputise for him as Commander-in-Chief. A womaniser and a gambler, one is told, and an inadequate senior officer. He would have had a brilliant career as a captain of cavalry in Wellington’s army, I do not doubt. He is hopeless as a general in this war.”

Richard listened to his own, true, words, and decided he had had a glass too many. The wise man did not utter the truth in front of the politically powerful; they must be told only what they wanted to hear.

Conversation stalled, turned rapidly to considerations of industry and agriculture.

“Mr Baker, you must know more than us of iron and steel – is it the case that we are not producing sufficient for our needs?”

“Aye, my lord. Definitely so. In part, too many of my men volunteered last year and are carrying a rifle in France. It were better they should be sent home again to better use their skills. There are shopmen and office workers who could go out in their place. More sensible to ensure that the skilled workers of every trade remained in their jobs and that the mere labourers and clerks replaced them in the services. That aside, we need a better organisation of purchasing for the Army and Navy, my lord. This last week I have had a deputation from the War Office demanding that I produce armour plate for a project of theirs; at the same moment, there was a party of naval people asking for more plate for their ships. I cannot supply both and need be told which is more important, my lord. I hear the same from all of my competitors, my lord. We try our best to meet the needs of the nation and are left to guess what they might be.”

Lord Elkthorn promised to instantly form a committee to investigate the problem, which he had not known to exist. He seemed to think that to be a sensible and sufficient response.

They joined the ladies and mingled determinedly, all of those new to each other to exchange a word, as was demanded by courtesy.

“Such a pleasure, Colonel, to be told that little Primrose was to marry and to so distinguished a soldier!

Richard smiled at the fifth repetition of the comment, made his stock reply of how happy he was that she had consented to wed him.

“Next year, I expect, ma’am.”

“When the war is over, you mean, Colonel?”

“No, ma’am. I have no desire to wait out the decade!”

Richard escorted the family to St Pancras next day, made his farewells and assured his father that he had shown well on the previous evening.

“It ain’t my place in the world to be mixing with lords and such, Richard! I like your little Primrose, my son! We talked a bit, her and I, and she is sensible and down to earth, that girl! Got a good head on her shoulders. You made a good choice there, Richard. I asked her where she wanted to live and she said a place in Norfolk would do her well, next to the sea. She went there on a holiday once and likes the country. If you do not object, I shall seek a place there for you.”

“Don’t know it, sir. If she likes it, that will do for me.”

“You have grown up, my son. I like the man you have become, much more than the boy. Good luck!”

They boarded the train and left Richard and Paisley to make their way to Paddington and the West Country.

Major Vokes arrived in the barracks at Devizes early on the Monday morning, reporting briskly. He was in his thirties, a heavily tanned career soldier with years in India behind him, recently promoted at an early age for a regular.

“Vokes, sir. I gather that I have to fill the shoes of one of the old brigade.”

“You do, Major. You are welcome indeed. We entrain on Thursday and I much suspect that there is a deal of organisation still to be done. Sergeant Cooper will know exactly what remains for you. Have you seen the Trenches?”

“No, sir. Disembarked from India two weeks ago. Service on the Frontier is all I know of action, sir. Believe it or not, I was shot with an old musket and spent the journey recuperating!”

“You will learn. Our Sergeant-Major knows his way about, joined me from the 3rd Battalion. He is a useful man and I would listen to his advice. The bulk of the battalion is green. All are willing and have learned to march and to point a rifle. The rest they can learn quickly under fire. Food, ammunition and rum, in that order, and the battalion will become effective in service. Where possible, turn the blind eye, Major. I prefer to see as little as possible of what happens in the dugouts. Keep a firm hand on the young officers – most of the lieutenants know nothing other than their Cadet Corps; be sure that they do not make foolish demands on the rank and file. No parade gloss on the boots or that damned nonsense!”

Vokes said that he had heard the trenches were full of mud.

“Exactly, Major. We shall be active, trench raiding and such, that being the way to keep morale up. You will have the opportunity to go out of a night, letting the men know that we lead from the front. I can’t go out too often – colonels are not allowed to – but I shall make sure I get my hands dirty on occasion. You should do the same.”

Vokes was sure he would be delighted.

“Dinners and mess fees, Major. Most of the youngsters live on their pay, so no extravagance in the Mess. It’s wartime.”

“Last word, Major – the Adjutant ain’t the most wide-awake I have ever seen and you will be carrying him more often than not. I haven’t found out how to make him useful – you try!”

Richard found himself almost bereft of words next morning as he welcomed his new second lieutenant.

“What are you doing here, Mr Wincanton?”

“The battalion was asked to provide a second lieutenant for the 8th Battalion, sir, and I volunteered instantly. The colonel said he was very glad to allow me to join you again, sir!”

Richard was sure that was so and knew exactly why; he was surprised he could not hear the man’s laughter from Devizes.

“Good of him, Mr Wincanton. We go out to France the day after tomorrow, so you have no need to unpack too much. Report to Major Vokes now and he will settle you into your company. I am glad to see you under my command again, Mr Wincanton.”

“I was sure you would be, sir. You put a great deal of effort into assisting me, sir.”

“So I did. Let me pass you across to Major Vokes now.”

Richard sat back and debated making a telephone call to Bedford. It would achieve little, he suspected, other than to cause offence. He intercepted Vokes when he returned to the offices.

“Which company has he gone to, Major?”

“C. In direct place of the youngster who was hospitalised. You know him, he tells me. Most pleased to return to your command.”

“Wincanton is a complete idiot, Major. He has yet to work out that I did not speak to him in friendship and that I really meant my threats to place him before a court and break him down to the ranks. He is a clever lad as well – just bone idle and not fit to be let out on his own!”

“A month at the front will do him some good, sir. One way or the other. He’ll learn or he’ll be six feet under.”

“I am worried that he will take many of his company down with him, Major. A hopeless object, I fear.”

Two trains were waiting at Devizes station, off in the sidings waiting for the battalion and its necessary stores. Major Vokes had a timetable worked out and the companies marched in, each behind three general service wagons which they unloaded into marked freight cars before themselves boarding their carriages. Five hours saw the whole battalion aboard and waiting to pull out.

The officers took the leading first-class carriage and Major Vokes spoke to the stationmaster and jumped aboard as they joined the main line within seconds of their scheduled time.

“Well done, Major! Most efficient.”

“Done it a dozen times in India, sir. Had to shift about the subcontinent every few months. It’s easy enough when one is practised. Bit of a nuisance having to board a ship – will take extra time, moving the stores into the holds and out again on the other side. No overwhelming difficulty, however.”

It was useful to have a professional with fifteen years of experience to hand, Richard reflected. The old Army had its uses. He wondered how Vokes felt about serving under a colonel so much younger than him; there was no way of asking.

There were ships waiting at Southampton, all as planned by Division. The 8th Beds left the train at quayside and marched up the gangway to their trooper and watched as stevedores unloaded the freight wagons into nets and quickly transferred them to the holds. Two batteries of eighteen pounders were being loaded with their horses onto a smaller freighter along the quay and they could see other battalions of infantry marching aboard converted passenger liners.

A glance over the other railing showed a light cruiser and four destroyers waiting to act as escort. There was a shout and a general pointing of hands as a Royal Naval Air Service dirigible appeared and slowly flew along Southampton Water, adding to their safety at sea.

“We are honoured, sir. The RNAS has only four operating balloons at the moment, so I read. Nothing to do other than read for the weeks coming back to England. The article said that they are developing smaller blimps for submarine work in the Channel. Useful!”

It occurred to Richard that he might prefer not to be sunk en route to France. The Navy was being efficient, it seemed, and the prospect of disaster was slight.

Food aboard was Spartan – biscuit and bully beef – but the passage was brief, completed overnight, entering Calais harbour before six in the morning. They were offloaded and marching out to a holding camp before midday, pleased by the efficiency shown – this was not the Army of ’14, improvising and only too often cocking up.

“Looks like the Staff are good for something, Major. A pleasant surprise!”

“More like to be the Royal Engineers, sir. They tend to be efficient in my experience. What is the plan for the next few days, sir?”

“Damned good question, Major. I am aware that we are to arrive in France and have little doubt that we shall be employed somewhere. General Fotherby will no doubt know more than me.”

They ate at the holding camp – a mass of tents and wagon parks behind a wire fence with a huge cookhouse permanently dishing out meals to the flow of men coming in and out. The food was awful.

“Mutton stew! Tells us we are back in France, Vokes!”

The Major was not impressed.

“We ate better than this in India, sir. Even Army curry is better than this.”

“France, the home of cuisine, they tell me. One would never know. Is that a messenger coming our way?”

“Yes, sir. No doubt he is to tell us that we will have bellyache this afternoon.”

The note was handed across and the messenger, a military policeman, stamped to attention.

“Beg pardon, sir. Please to sign the attached receipt, sir.”

Major Vokes scribbled his name and dismissed the man. He read the message and passed it across to Richard.

“Motor transport at Number Five Gate for fifteen hundred hours, sir, for the battalion. To take us into Artois, to join General Gough’s First Corps near Cambrin.”

“New territory for me, Vokes. Find out where Five Gate is, if you would. Where’s the Adjutant?”

A prolonged search found Captain Hawkeswill arranging officers’ accommodation for the night and bewailing the poor quality of the Mess. On being informed that they were on the move he was most upset, thinking they had travelled quite far enough for one day.

“It’s war, Captain! Please ensure that each company is aware of the order and point them to Five Gate, allocating each to transport. We will not require the tents, it would seem. They can go to Division. Ensure that all other stores remain with us.”

Hawkeswill ran; he had shown actually afraid of Richard since he had, in his opinion, driven poor Templeton to his grave.

“I think you will have to double-check, Major Vokes.”

Vokes shrugged.

“He is getting better, sir. Too old to learn new habits, perhaps, but he was a useful officer ten years ago and is remembering the fact now.”

They boarded the familiar red double-decker buses, most of them the worse for wear after their hard service since the Battle of the Marne, and rattled off to the front, the green soldiers singing and cheering at first and then growing suddenly quiet as they entered the devastation of the rear areas, as farmland turned to broken waste in the space of half a mile.

“8th Beds? Colonel Baker?”

A harassed staff officer carrying a clipboard ran across to Richard.

“You are required to take over your section of the trenches with immediate effect, sir. There was a local advance yesterday, the Hun attempting to turf us out of a salient which narrows no-man’s-land to a bare eighty yards. They don’t like us so close to them, it would seem!”

The last comment appeared to be a joke, in the staff officer’s estimation. It fell flat.

“Yes, well… They failed to dislodge us. Casualties were rather high and it is judged best to relieve the battalion of Norfolks that had the line. After dark, tonight.”

“Certainly, Captain. That should be no problem. What arrangements have you made for feeding the men while we remain here?”

Nothing had been done regarding food.

“Well, it is seventeen hundred hours now. I am sure you can come up with something in the next hour. Eight hundred and fifty of us, officers and men. By eighteen hundred hours, captain?”

The staff officer ran. Richard turned to Major Vokes.

“The Norfolks won’t be eating much tonight, from the sound of it. Probably half of their meals will be spare. Arrange for an issue from our own reserve stores, Major, to make up the portions.”

“Bully beef will be better than that bloody mutton stew they dished up at the holding camp, sir!”

“Get used to it – that was typical of the stuff that comes up to us. Word is that they are supplying fresh bread and bottles of jam as extras from this month. The bread will be stale and the jam will taste like crap, no doubt!”

“I say, sir!”

Major Vokes was upset by such vulgarity, being used to the Victorian habits of the Indian Army.

“Captain Hawkeswill!”

The Adjutant came running.

“Organise tea for the men while we are waiting, please.”

Hawkeswill ran in the direction of a cookhouse he had spotted earlier, pleased with his forethought. The men were dipping their mugs into tea buckets inside twenty minutes, most of them pleased for something hot and only a few cavilling at the flavour. The officers were less pleased but mostly accepted the hardships of war. Richard heard Wincanton’s voice raised in protest, heard a sharp response from another young gentleman.

“Do shut up, Wincanton! You are a complete tit, you know!”

Richard was quite pleased to discover that his contemporaries shared his own opinion of Wincanton’s merits.

A little more than an hour and the battalion was queuing outside a vast mess tent, eating five companies at a time, their plates heaped with real meat and cabbage and boiled potatoes.

“General Gough insists, sir. He won’t tolerate lukewarm mutton stew, sir.”

A cookhouse sergeant saluted as he explained and called the officers to a smaller tent.

“Same food for officers, sir. It ain’t the best but it’s as good as we can do with a field kitchen, sir. Given the stuff to cook, we can turn out a meal, sir.”

“What’s like up in the trenches, Sergeant?”

“Same grub, sir, but two hours colder. Can’t do nothing about that, sir.”

They marched to the line in darkness, using a hard road, newly surfaced with crushed limestone and just visible. The Norfolks pulled out, company by company, attenuated parties of twenty or thirty being replaced by groups of eighty officers and men.

“Lost two thirds by the looks of it, sir.”

“Worn down over a few months and then big losses last night, Major. We came out of Neuve Chapelle in the same condition. Be sure that the men have their picks and shovels. There’s likely to be some digging tonight. Must have been some shell fire yesterday.”

A captain of the Norfolks sought out Richard.

“Cowplain, sir. Acting in command. Lost the colonel and the major last night. Colonel’s dugout is in the second line of trenches, sir. I can take you to it.”

There was a pair of hurricane lamps, sufficient to work over the documentation needed.

“The salient we occupy is just a half-circle, sir, sticking out a bit towards the German lines. There was an old road just here, sunken down a bit, made a natural line to hold when the movement came to an end. Useful in its way, sir, for keeping an eye out on what’s going on in Hunland. They don’t like it much. Third time they’ve tried to straighten us out. We have a battery of sixty pounders registered to our front and have a telephone line to them. As well as that, Corps keeps eighteen pounders on our call. We have put in for extra Vickers Guns, but haven’t got them.”

“Lewises?”

“Two per company, sir. Saving our neck, too.”

“Have you been raiding?”

“Not from the salient, sir. Too well watched at night.”

“We might change that. Thank you, Captain.”

The dugouts were deep and wet and the trench itself had a foot of mud to its bottom.

Richard surveyed the construction in the first light, deciding what must be improved.

It was a simple U, twelve feet deep and fifteen broad with a firing step some four feet below the forward edge with stairs leading up at intervals. The bottom was boarded, the timbers raised on three foot pilings to be out of the worst of the mud. There was a deeper hole, a sump, carved out at their mid-point with a small petrol pump and hoses; in theory, rainwater collected and was pumped away to reduce flooding in bad weather. The pump was small and the sump not especially large.

“Captain Hawkeswill! First job. Another pump, two or three if possible, hand or petrol, and when you’ve got it, or them, dig extra sumps. Try to dry this bloody mess. What do the dugouts look like?”

“Holes, sir.”

Richard shoved his head inside the nearest, saw duckboards to the floor and beams and boards to the ceiling but bare earth walls.

“We want more timbers to line those walls. Make them drier. Fewer bad chests, with luck. Beg, borrow or steal extra firewood and coal. We want tea buckets permanently on the go. Where are the latrines?”

“A quarter of a mile back, sir. Inconvenient if we get dysentery here.”

Richard shrugged. Any such cases must go back to Doctor Pearce at the Aid Post.

The machine guns were mounted and there was a sufficient apron of barbed wire – one shortage that had been remedied over the summer.

“Sergeant Major O’Grady!”

“Sir!”

O’Grady was well within hearing range of his colonel.

“I have heard tell of a Mills Bomb?”

“In issue these couple of months, sir. Not general issue yet. I shall see what might be possible.”

“Excellent! We could really use an extra Lewis or two, you know.”

“We happen to have some, sir. The Norfolks left some behind, having too many now that they were so short of men.”

Richard kept a straight face. He had brought two cartons of a dozen bottles of Scotch with him, had left them in O’Grady’s care against need. It seemed likely they had been put to use. The Norfolks could realistically write off the bulk of their equipment as lost in their little battle; there would probably be other items tucked away out of his sight, to remain unknown to him.

“How do we stand for shell damage to the trench, ‘Major?”

“Almost none, sir. No attempt was made to destroy the trench. Looks like the aim was to take it, to give the Hun a salient instead.”

“Logical. Convenient, too. Set some men to drawing a plan of the area to our front, ‘Major. Preparation for raiding, aiming to start the night after next.”

“That can be done, sir. We shall be needing the tools for raiding, sir…”

“Get them.”

That would probably take the remainder of his whisky.

The remainder of the day was spent in painstaking instruction of the officers. All of them knew the theory of trench warfare; the actuality was disconcerting.

“Heads down. Watch your fronts from behind cover, peering out sideways. Do not expose yourselves – there will be snipers. Have you identified your best shots? Set your people out under cover. Watch for activity and kill it!”

The same words, time after time, the junior officers finding their excitement waning in the face of reality. They took their first casualty that afternoon.

There was a yell of ‘stretcher-bearers’ and a scurry of activity along the duckboards. Richard was close to the scene, stood back, out of the way as four men came running carrying a fifth prone on the rough litter.

“Who?”

“Prendergast, sir. Who else would it be?”

Major Vokes gave the disgusted answer.

“How?”

“He saw the wire to his front was drooping flat to the ground, blown off its posts by a small shell, by the looks of it. He stood up to put it back in place, sir. Lasted ten seconds before he took a bullet.”

“Bloody idiot! What state is he in?”

“Smack in the belly, sir. Depends on what is ripped up. If it’s just a bit of intestine punctured, he might well be back here in three months. Should it be liver or kidneys or whatever, he probably won’t live. Question of luck when you get one in the guts, sir. In India we used to call them a passport Home.”

“Born stupid and never learned any better, that lad. Talking of which, where is Wincanton?”

They found the young officer in the second line with a party from his company, clustered about a Lewis Gun and learning how to field strip and clean the little machine gun.

“Tricky business, sir! I shall get it right soon, sir!”

“Let us hope you may, Mr Wincanton. Is your revolver loaded, by the way?”

The boy was puzzled by the question, pulled the gun from its holster and studied it in amaze.

“Oh! It is not, sir. How did you know?”

“I guessed, Mr Wincanton. Load it now and tuck it away.”

Vokes was running out of patience with the young gentleman.

“If that boy has brains, sir, he sits upon them!”

“Clever but bone idle, Major. Incapable of thinking for himself after nineteen years of inanition. Never rely on him to do the right thing.”

Chapter Fourteen

Simon sat at his desk, smiling at his assembled officers.

“Going out tomorrow morning, gentlemen, on the tide. Four days patrol to the Broad Fourteens, primarily to exercise the half-section, get us used to working together. I would be more than a little upset was Lancelot to show inefficient in front of her junior ships.”

The assembled officers shook their heads at the prospect. Canning spoke for them when he assured Simon that the ship had turned over a new leaf.

“The hands are aware that we know what happened and why, sir. If anything, they are relieved that the secret is out. They know that there will be no official action, no courts, sir. I am sure they will all pull together now. Lancelot will be far more effective a ship.”

McCracken agreed.

“More the thing now, sir. They are relieved it is all behind them now, sir. They hope to get on with fighting the war, sir, rather than each other.”

Higgins was puzzled, he had not noticed anything wrong.

Midshipman Waller knew the rules and stayed silent, waiting to be directly addressed before he opened his mouth.

Simon gave a brief set of instructions, within reason content that the ship was now effective.

“I shall be in the depot ship most of the afternoon, meeting with the other three captains. Can’t really cram them into my little cabin here. First day out, exercise your departments, be sure that they are on top of all routines. Mr Rees, work your gun crews, if you please, and speak with Mr Canning about any who need be replaced, for any reason. We shall then spend a couple of days – and nights – in evolutions with the others. Everything on top line.”

“Will there be live firing, sir?”

“I expect there to be, Mr Rees. Guns only. Torpedoes are too expensive.”

The afternoon was long and tedious, as Simon had expected. He was senior officer of the four ships in the half-section, would normally be in command as the flotilla of eight rarely worked together now. Four ships was generally sufficient for their needs in the Patrol. Were they to go out with the fleet, then they would naturally be in the full flotilla but they did not expect that to eventuate in the southern reaches of the North Sea.

The problem was that he was five years the youngest of the four captains and with little of peacetime experience to back him up. The other lieutenants-in-command had risen rapidly to their positions, by normal standards, and were jealously aware that at age twenty-one, barely, they had just been celebrating their early promotion from sublieutenant. All had served four years and more in their destroyers before being given command. They were not inclined to respect a ‘lucky’ sub who had seen action, by good fortune, and had been pushed too far, too quickly and had made lieutenant commander well before he should have.

The decorations were another source of doubt – they knew Simon had a Mention as well as two DSCs. A glory hunter or monstrously lucky, obviously. They much suspected that he was anxious for his Cross and would take any risk with their lives to achieve his fame.

The depot ship had a couple of cabins set up for meetings, was used to catering for the needs of its small ships. A steward was to hand to provide tea or coffee. There was a table set out with ashtrays and with reasonably comfortable chairs; the scuttles were open and gave a pleasant breeze rather than the normal chill half-gale that characterised the North Sea. It was a beautiful afternoon, in fact, about to be spoiled by their meeting with the new man.

“Come in, gentlemen. Please be seated. Smoke if you wish. Tea or coffee?”

They sat and lit up and announced their preferences.

“I am Sturton, as you know, made up from Sheldrake to Lancelot. Now that I have scraped the mud off her, I have the opportunity to meet with you.”

They managed a laugh, having watched Lancelot’s antics with a mixture of amusement and contempt.

“I believe we have discovered the root cause of Lancelot’s problems, gentlemen. If I am wrong, you will have a grandstand view over the next few days.”

A more genuine laugh followed that comment.

“Now, in seniority, if you please, who are you?”

“Travis, sir, Lightning.”

Mid-twenties, bearded, short and somehow bristling and carrying a broken nose.

“Are you the Travis who was Fleet middleweight champion boxer?”

“Still am, sir!”

“Good. I look forward to seeing you fight again after the war.”

Simon glanced at the next man.

“Williams, sir. Lynx.”

The exact opposite of Travis, tall and slender, fair-haired, seemingly languid.

“You were a lieutenant on the sail-training ship, were you not, Mr Williams? Back in the year ’11, that would be.”

“I was, sir. You must have been one of the Dartmouth victims that year, sir.”

“I was indeed. Learned to lay out on a topsail yard. Must have been good training for the boats – look at me now!”

All had had occasional doubts about the emphasis on handling sailing ships at Dartmouth. They managed a smile.

“Campbell-Barnes, sir. Lucifer.”

Very much a Mayfair drawl, a cut above the rest socially.

“Did I not see you last week, sir, in company with Lord Perceval?”

“I was in London visiting my uncle, certainly. Since both his sons died, we have become far closer.”

Campbell-Barnes nodded, satisfied – Sturton was the man he had thought and socially significant. All doubts about his professional competence must be put aside.

“Jolly good, sir. I must say how pleased I am that you are to lead us after your experience in Sheldrake, sir. We have all read of your exploits there!”

“Much exaggerated by the gutter press, I am afraid. We have to put up with their ill-bred vulgarity by Admiralty order. As a general rule, gentleman, if we see them again, speak very carefully to reporters. Let them ask their asinine questions and answer them simply and clearly using short words and saying nothing at all that can be twisted into controversy. If you work on the basis that all reporters are acting in the German interest to subvert the war effort, you will not be far wrong!”

They wondered if he was serious, decided he might be.

“We are going out tomorrow to the Broad Fourteens. One day to exercise your ships’ companies as you think right and after that two days of manoeuvres as a half-section – torpedo runs, gun attacks, simulated raids on harbours. All the normal stuff, high speed when possible. We can expect to be out on patrol off the Belgian coast next week. Now then, condition reports, gentlemen? What do you need?”

Painstaking hours then of detail as each captain stated his requirements to bring his ship to top possible condition, including especially the need to promote, train or get rid of particular men.

Finally, Simon brought the discussion to an end.

“Send me the reports and I shall take them to Commodore Tyrwhitt in person. We might get some of what we need because just at the moment I am a blue-eyed boy. Worth trying, anyway!”

They returned to harbour five days later, tired from long hours of exercises but within reason content in their own efficiency. Lancelot led them in, properly in line, in near-perfect condition, having experienced no disasters at all for the first cruise in months. As a group they were satisfied.

They took up their moorings and were directed to the oiling wharf in succession and then to the Powder Hulk to re-ammunition. Finally a signal came from base for them to allow shore leave that evening, preparatory to sailing for Dunkerque next day. Simon was called to the Commodore.

“All well, Sturton?”

“All in hand, sir. Ready to go out to business.”

“What of the captains?”

“Travis and Williams are both fully capable, sir. Campbell-Barnes kisses arse too enthusiastically for my liking but runs an effective ship.”

“A Society darling, I believe, Sturton. Presumably believes you to be of the same ilk.”

“While he can fight his ship, sir, he can be what he wishes.”

“So be it. Dunkerque tomorrow, then along the coast to the east of Zeebrugge and see what you can pick up there overnight. Two twelve inch monitors will be conducting a bombardment and it is believed that there are numbers of small craft at Zeebrugge who will come out in response. Torpedo boats mostly. Submarines are a possibility although they are too slow to react to the monitors. Destroyers may be present – there has been movement up and down the coast recently and we are not sure what is where. Light cruisers are unlikely and heavies are certainly not to be found. It is just possible that there are some converted merchantmen, given a couple of heavy guns apiece to act as auxiliary cruisers. Minelayers, of course, proliferate. Mostly trawlers in that function. Could be entertaining, Sturton!”

“The greatest of fun, sir!”

He considered his own words as he returned to Lancelot, decided that he had not been lying too much. Action was entertaining – more than that, he was awake, alert, on top form when the guns were firing. That led to the question of whether he was admitting to himself that he enjoyed killing…

There were several answers there, not all of them wholly palatable; he decided that he would consider his own motives in some detail, when the war was over.

For the while, he had four ships to take out into the dark night of bloodshed. He whistled as he made his way to his boat.

Christopher marshalled his baggage, dug out from the fish hold on Hans Heine where the trunks had been tucked away. He would need the uniforms now, would be wearing something more than the scruffiest working gear. Black Prince was renowned as a ‘pukka ship’, everything taut and polished, including the officers.

“I am off, Skipper. Back to the real Navy. It might be a good thing. I can go back to England when the war is over, thanks to serving with you and your boys.”

Murchison nodded brusquely.

“Aye, ye have done well with us, Adams. Turn up at Fraserburgh any time and there will be a berth for ye as mate and a trawler of your own in short time. Ye sound like a soft Sassenach pansy but ye know how to fight and which way to travel to find trouble. Good luck to ye now and keep your trews buttoned, man!”

Murchison and the bulk of the crew, all openly listening, roared with laughter. Christopher joined them, realising it was affectionate, that they had accepted him as one of their own. He was rarely pleased, found he had a value for them. He started to heave his own trunks down to the wharf, found half a dozen hands glad to assist and putting them onto a trolley drawn by a pair of Egyptians.

“Thank you, gentlemen! If I see you after the war, drinks all round!”

He knew better than offer to tip them.

Five minutes quick marching around to the berth where Black Prince lay, using the short time to change his whole mindset. By the time he stood at the brow he was stiff backed and staring arrogantly about him, much as the old admiral’s staff officer had behaved, before his misfortunes. He turned to the officer of the day.

“Adams, reporting to join.”

“Welcome aboard, Adams.” The officer of the day nodded to his petty officer to see to the baggage. “You are to report to the Commander, in his office, old chap. I am Seton, by the way.”

Seton was openly accepting him as one of the wardroom. Pariah status had been revoked, it would seem. He was relieved, had wondered whether he might have to spend months establishing himself in the eyes of his fellow-officers.

He strode, still at march pace, to the stern and the offices, nodded to the Marine sentry stood officiously by the cabin door.

“Lieutenant Adams to see the Commander.”

He was announced and given entry.

“Maxton-Cavendish, Adams. Come in, take a seat!”

The Commander stood and offered his hand, reinforcing the message that he had returned to the ranks of the couth and civilised.

“You have had a bit of bad luck, I know, Adams. Put that behind you, as much as you can. You have done well out here and that is all we care to know now. You brought that mob of trawlers into good order and put Johnny Turk in his place! Saved a lot of potential bother for us in Egypt. Well done. You would normally have picked up more than a Mention, I know. As it stands, well, still no prospect of a career for you, as you will appreciate, but you will receive an honourable discharge when you send in your papers at war’s end – no stain on the record. Enough of that! You are to be number two to the Navigator. He is in line for promotion in the immediate future, when we return to Blighty, most likely. The intention is that you will step into his shoes, at the correct rank, provided all goes well. The Captain is ashore just now. He will see you when he comes aboard. For today, settle yourself in and get to know people. You will not be watched as such but will arrange with the Navigator when you are on duty. Off you go now!”

There was a servant waiting for him, leading him to his cabin.

“Not to be shared, sir. As you are to be Navigator soon, simplest to have proper cabin of your own, no need to move.”

He found the obligatory tip and relaxed, back to the Navy again, returned to the life he had missed, if only for the duration of hostilities. He changed out of his reporting uniform, freshened up at the small sink in the corner of the cabin and walked to find the wardroom, wondering if he would still fit in to the life. The trawlers had been ridiculously informal, slack one might say; their men had fought as well as any he had ever met or heard of. Perhaps the Navy was too blinkered by it habits and traditions; he would not say that to any of his fellows.

“Hello, old chap! You must be Adams, my assistant and very welcome! What will you drink?”

He finally relaxed – he was home again.

“Pinkers, old chap! How do you do?”

“We are settled in now, gentlemen. Time to announce our presence to the Hun. Where are their machineguns? Have you plotted their observation posts? Are there weak points in the defences? Captain Barrett, you first, taking the companies in order.”

Barrett was not sure he could answer any of those questions. He put up a creditable show, vowing to himself to discover the facts by the end of the day.

“There seems to be a small trench mortar opposite us, sir. I do not know whether there are others along the line. They fire four rounds every morning, ten minutes after dawn, regular as clockwork these three days. I have lost two men to it, sir. I had it in mind to pay a visit as soon as we are free to raid, sir.”

“Well done, Barrett, that is exactly what I wish to hear. Over the next week, we shall make this section of the lines hot for the Hun. Four raids to go out tomorrow night, simultaneously, left, right and a pair to the centre. Major Vokes will nominate who is to go first. You will all get your chance. I will accompany one of you tomorrow, the Major will go out in three or four days with the next set of raids.”

There was a general murmur that could be translated as enthusiasm.

“Parties will consist of no more than a dozen, second lieutenant with each and either captain or lieutenant but not both together. The youngsters need to be blooded – make them grow up.”

“Make their balls drop, so we always said in India!”

“In some cases, that may well be necessary, Major. I shall name no names, will certainly not say Wincanton!”

There was a shout of laughter.

Captain Puckett of C Company loyally said that the boy might surprise them yet.

“Nothing Wincanton might do would surprise me, Puckett. Though, thinking of it, him doing anything might be surprising!”

“I have some hopes for him, sir. I did not have to rebuke him once yesterday.”

“A landmark in his military career!”

More laughter and commiseration with Puckett.

“Right, gentlemen, raiding parties, organisation thereof. ‘Major O’Grady has issued an amount of equipment, I believe.”

“He has, sir – I could hardly believe my eyes. It is not some sort of Irish black joke, is it?”

“No, Captain Draper, it is not. I retain my own club from my last time in a trench.”

Richard brandished his length of steel rod.

“At two foot range in the dark, bashing on the bonce is simpler than trying to point a rifle. gentlemen! Trench knives are also handy. You have the new Mills bomb to use before entering the enemy trench or immediately after leaving. Do remember that you can lob the grenade forty yards at most and its fragments have a range of up to one hundred yards. Throw it, yell a warning to your own men and drop!”

“Could one not throw it like a cricket ball, sir?”

“Some few of us might be able to, Draper. Most soldiers are not gifted that way – and most bowlers only look to propel the ball over twenty-two yards. It would be a risk. Better to keep to the official method, I think. Remember you have a seven second delay on the fuse. If you are to toss a grenade into a bunker or dugout, you may wish to count off four seconds first, so that it cannot be thrown back. By the way, if you suspect there is ammunition in a bunker, take good cover after using your grenade!”

They looked thoughtful.

“Do we take the Lewises out on raids, sir?”

“Provided you bring them back again, you may. Treat them with care – they are the most valuable of weapons. A full pan from a Lewis will do much to clear a trench to your front – I like the gun!”

They laughed dutifully, presuming that Richard had made a joke.

“Finally, gentlemen, do remember that trench raids are made for the purpose of gaining intelligence. Bring back prisoners. Strip badges from the dead, for identification. Grab maps and papers from officers’ dugouts. If you can, get hold of a rifle or two or other light weapon so that our Ordnance people can examine them for the latest improvements.  If you can lay hands on their automatic pistols, do so – they are handy little beasts to tuck away in your own pockets, if you are any shot with a pistol. I am not, so I have never bothered with them. If it can be arranged, there will be demolition charges to hand. Stuff them into every bunker and dugout and machinegun pit and you will leave them with days of digging to make all correct again. Last of all – our men are green as grass! Encourage them to kill the Hun. They will find it hard first time and the sooner they are habituated to bloodshed, the better soldiers they will become. Take surrenders if they are offered; try to kill the Hun before he can put his hands up. If our men hesitate to pull the trigger, they may be killed themselves. They must be made into unblinking killers, melodramatic as that may sound!”

Richard hoped the repetition of the word ‘kill’ might have a positive effect – he was none too sure that some of the officers might not think about what they were doing in a fight when they should simply react.

The officers filed out of Richard’s dugout in the second line, leaving him in company with Vokes.

“Will they do it, Major? You have been at the sharp end on the Frontier, know what I am talking about.”

“You are right, sir. I have seen three young subalterns in my time to die unnecessarily because they could not bring themselves to kill the man in front of them. It is not easy for most soldiers, simply and casually to kill an unknown for being in the wrong place with a rifle in his hand. They have to habituate themselves to bloodletting. You have your own knowledge of that, I must imagine, sir.”

Richard shook his head.

“I was fortunate with the first Hun I killed, Major. He was running at me with a bayonet and I had only a revolver. I knew damned well that if I did not kill him before he had covered the twenty paces separating us, I was going to get a belly full of sharp steel. It took me six rounds – I am not a good shot with a pistol – but I had no doubts about what I was doing!”

“Same here, sir. I was a captain and had never seen a bullet fired in anger and then there was a bloody great hairy Pathan coming at me with a knife a foot long. I am a good shot with a service revolver and I put a cluster of three centrally in his chest, and was more than happy to have done so. Broke the ice most effectively! After that, I had no problems with pulling a trigger.”

“Nor me. I fear sometimes that I find it only too easy.”

“And me, sir! It becomes tempting to resort to the gun first, argument later. Keeping peace in the cities in India I sometimes had to restrain myself from opening fire unnecessarily simply because it would have been easier than arguing. I have talked with men who had duty in Ireland and they have said the same. Teach a soldier that it is his job to kill people and then put him on the streets and tell him he is to keep the peace? Daft if you ask me, sir!”

“Not a problem facing us just now. Who should I go out with first? Which of them needs to be more worried about the fire-breathing Colonel than the fearsome Hun?”

“Draper, I do not doubt. He talked a little too much, showed just a fraction twitchy, to my mind. Too much imagination, I suspect. Get his hands bloody – dip his toe in the water, one might say – and he will have no problems. He might just need a little stimulus, in the form of that notorious shedder of blood, Colonel Baker, VC, standing at his shoulder.”

“‘Notorious’?”

“Don’t be indignant, sir – the men have heard no end of tales of you. I have been told how excited they were when you appeared as their colonel. More than one has said he read of you in the papers last year and downed tools and walked into the recruiting office to follow your example. We censor the letters home, as you know, sir. We have all read the men telling their families of how you have come to lead them to glory. You have a deal to live up to, sir, and eight hundred men who will fight better for hoping you might notice them and praise their efforts.”

“Yet it all came about by accident, you know, Vokes.”

The Major laughed.

“When does it not, sir? They say that Nelson actively sought glory – he was a rarity. Most of us go out to do our duty and then find ourselves having to do more simply to finish the day’s work. These raids will turn the battalion into a fighting unit. At the moment they are a well trained bunch of amateurs. Now, you are to apply the finishing touches that will make them professionals. No doubt you will be seen at their head, simply to get the job done. So will I.”

Richard joined his laughter.

“So I shall, Vokes. Let us get about winning this war single-handed, shall we?”

Copyright

Copyright © 2020 Andrew Wareham

KINDLE Edition

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This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Content

Andrew Wareham
THE WAR TO END ALL WARS
- Book Three -
END TO ILLUSION

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