Blackest of Lies (28 page)

BATTLE CRUISER IN DISTRESS BETWEEN MARWICK HEAD AND THE BROUGH OF BIRSAY - STOP

“Jessie, get that off to Stromness and Kirkwall.  I’m getting back to the lookout post to see what’s happening”

As he raced back to the billet he called out to the gunner, “Joe, I’m back.  What’s happening?”

“I think she’s going down, Corp!”

As the two men watched, holding on to their helmets in the gale, the
Hampshire
quickly sank.

“Jesus!  God help those poor lads.  I’ll need to get back and let the Admirality know.  Keep your eyes peeled.”

Once again, he raced to two hundred yards to the Post Office and burst through the door, “Jessie, she’s gone down.  Can you add that to the telegram?”

“Oh here, now, that’s terrible! “  She sat still, hands over her mouth, trying to imagine the horrors of all those men in the sea on a night like this.

“Jessie! Can we add that to the telegram?”

“Right! Right!  Honestly, I don’t know.  I’ll need to ask Kirkwall.  They’ll know whit to do.”

Moments later, she signalled to Kirkwall.

THE SHIP HAS SUNK - STOP CAN THAT BE ADDED TO THE TELEGRAM – QUESTION MARK - END

They waited for five minutes that seemed like five hours until the reply came through to say that it was ‘all right’.

“’All right?’  What does that mean?  Are we sure it’ll go into the telegram to the Admirality?”

“Oh, aye.  If Morag say it’s fine, you can be sure of it,” she soothed.

Unconvinced, he thanked her and returned to his post.

**********

Hubert vomited weakly into the water, aware that he could not keep Farmer’s inert body afloat for much longer.  Exhaustion and hypothermia were fast setting in.  His broken ribs, the coshing and the salt water in his damaged lungs caused him desperate, dizzying pain while the incredible cold paralysed him, taking away all feeling from his arms and legs.  Each wave carried them twenty or thirty feet into the air and then bore them down into a trough, submerging them in a tumbling mass of bubbles.

Gently, he tried to turn around, holding Farmer’s head above the surface.  Although it must have been well past eight in the evening, it was still day despite the bottle-green light of the storm and he could see the shoreline of one of the Orkney Islands about a mile or so away.  That would have to be his target.  He kicked round again, pulling Henry on to his chest and started to swim towards shore.

God knows how long they’d been in the water.  It seemed like hours but couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes or so, he thought.  The older man had been drifting in and out of consciousness throughout but had been silent and unmoving for some time now. Hubert looked around for rafts or longboats each time they crested a wave but they were either all gone or deep in the troughs of other waves.

“Chris.”

The sudden voice, close to his ear, caused Hubert to start.  “Jesus, Henry!” he croaked, “”You nearly scared me to death there!”

“Chris, let me go.  Neither of us is going to survive if you try to keep me afloat.”

“Not a chance, Henry,” he choked as a wave hit him flat in the face.  “Been through too much to do that.”

“I’ll be dead within the half hour.  I know the symptoms.”  He grinned, ashen-faced. “I’ve had some medical training.”

“Well, we’ll just keep things going as they are until then.”

“No, you …”

“Henry, you have to shut up and let me save my breath.  With my lungs the way they are, I’m in desperate need of them.”

Farmer did as he was told and within a few moments, Hubert could feel that he was unconscious once more.  “Hang on for God’s sake, Henry!”  He looked around frantically.  “Where the hell is the rest of the crew?”

**********

Having second thoughts, the Post Mistress sent another telegram to Stromness instead of the signal she had made earlier to Kirkwall.

FOUR FUNNEL CRUISER SUNK TWENTY MINUTES AGO – STOP – NO ASSISTANCE ARRIVED YET – STOP – SEND SHIPS TO PICK UP BODIES – END

Up on the ridge, the Corporal had a clear view, but for the weather conditions, of the sea around.  No ships had arrived yet to pick up survivors.  Where were they?  Men would be dying out there in these conditions.  He ducked into his command post and cranked the handle of the field telephone.  “Put me through to the Vice-Admiral at Longhope,” he said with authority.  While he waited for the connection, he imagined all the forms of torture he’d be subjected to for his temerity but what the hell did he care – it could be his brother out there.  Thank God he was serving in warmer waters but, still …

The phone crackled into life. “Hello?  Hello!  I’m sorry but the Vice Admiral has left clear instructions that he is not to be disturbed.”  And, with that, the line went dead.  Over in Longhope, Brock glanced at his ADC setting the earpiece of the telephone onto its hook.  “Thank you, Jamie,” he said quietly.  “That’ll be all for this evening but, before you leave, ask the Commander, Western Patrol to call me as soon as possible.”

“Aye, Sir.  Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jamie.”

When the door had closed behind the young officer, Brockman fished out the telegram from Kell, grabbed a lighter from the table and burned the message to fragments in the nearest ashtray, grinding them to a fine powder afterwards.

Monday, 5 June 1916 1942 hours – 2300 hours

Twice the car had nearly been blown over as Boissier drove north.  In fact, the savagery of the wind almost stopped them dead in their tracks as they turned right into its teeth, away from the lyrically-named Loch of Boardhouse.  “Why the hell can’t they have civilised names in this God-forsaken dump?”  He wiped the rain from his goggles, muttering. “Arse-end of the world!”  He turned to his sodden companion, “Where the hell are we?”

Pickup glanced at the small map he was pressing tightly against his knees to stop it being blown away.  Vance had left it for them in the car with one or two important routes carefully marked on it together with some notes in a careful, copperplate script.  With the rain and the fact that the gale had ripped the canvas clean off the car an hour ago, the map was now so sodden it was in great danger of simply falling apart at the fold lines.  He pointed over to the half-right. “See that promontory over there?  There’s sort of peninsula at the end of it but in this bloody weather you can hardly see it from here – it all looks one spit of land.”

“It’s probably been blown away by this lunatic wind, too!” Boissier peered into the darkening sheets of rain and, little by little, he was gradually able to see huge waves smashing themselves at the base of the point’s cliffs.  “Right! Got it!  I can’t see the damn thing itself but there’s a lot of spray over there.”

“That’s it!”  Pickup had to shout in Boissier’s ear to be heard.  “That’s the Brough of Birsay, so we’re too far north if Vance’s notes are as good as he thinks.  Looks like the road we’re on turns hard left in a mile and a bit and then it goes straight south,” he shouted.  “We’ll get to Marwick Head about three miles after that and that’s where he thinks there’s the best chance of finding survivors.” He prodded Boissier. ”It’ll be a hell of a job driving then – look, it’s all small tracks from there on out westward towards the coast.”

“Wonderful!”

“The thing is – there’s almost no shoreline.  It’s all cliffs - the map calls them ‘geos’ – Nebbi Geo is the one to check out first, apparently.  We’ll have to watch that none of the yokels try to pull survivors up by rope or go down to help.”

“So there’s no beach they can come ashore on?”

Pickup looked again at the map, almost losing it again in the wind.  “There’s a golf course with a smallish beach.  It’s called the Bay of Skaill but that’s a fair bit south of here.  Can’t see them lasting that long.”

**********

“Look, lads, we’ve too many people in here,” shouted the Petty Officer in Duquesne’s raft, “Some of you will have to get back into the water and hold on or we’ll all go under.”

Without discussion, a dozen men cheerfully jumped into the sea, some of them striking off for shore, “We’ll get there afore you and grab all the skirt!” they shouted back. 

Without the extra weight, the raft rose considerably but for the young boy seamen, it was still tough.  They could still barely keep their heads above the water line.  On the other side of the raft, Duquesne could see a private soldier, probably the one ordered to fix the blacksmith.  He was talking to the Petty Officer but the wind and sea made it impossible for Duquesne to make out what he was saying. Using the violent movement of the raft as cover, he let himself be battered around the perimeter until he was within a man or two of the pair.  God knows what he was saying to him – having the Grim Reaper in the raft with you would make most men garrulous and, to Duquesne, the private had a weasely, self-serving look about him.  He might say anything.

“Shall we reach the shore?” chattered the ‘solider’, in agony from the cold.

The sailor looked carefully at him.  “Sure we will.  I think we’ll do it,” he said comfortingly.

“I don’t think so, mate.”  Within a few minutes, his head had sagged backwards against the cork floats and he gently slid to the bottom of the raft.

Duquesne looked at the said shore – it was a bare mile away but the wind, being from the north-north-west was driving them
down
the coast rather than
towards
it.  Despite clamping his jaw tightly shut to stop trembling, he was sure that he sweated at the thought of being blown
past
Orkney and out into open sea.  He scanned the horizon.  Was
no-one
going to come looking for them?  His thoughts were shattered by a raucous noise – one of the sailors singing.

“It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go …” The old, grizzled gunner shouted out the song and called on his mates to join in the chorus.  For a while, some of them tried, but, one by one, they fell silent, trying to conserve their energies.

“Tom!” called one, “Pipe down.  You’ll wear yourself out.”

“No I bloody won’t!” he shouted.  “You buggers need to rouse yerselves or you’ll nivir see land again.”  He staggered up and waved his arms stiffly like an arthritic conductor.  “Right then.  It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a …” He never saw the wave that came from behind him.  When it had passed over the raft, he was gone.

“Christ,” thought the Boer, “I’m not getting out of this.”

**********

“Hello, there.  Who am I speaking to?”

Mr George Linklater Thomson was a man used to trouble at sea.  The Honorary Secretary of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution in Stromness for many years, he had seen marine tragedy in all its uncompromising forms so when sailors were in danger, he was equally uncompromising.  He knew the waters around Orkney and he knew the weather.  This storm was probably the worst he had seen for a couple of decades at least and when the news of the
Hampshire
reached him, his first thought was to get the lifeboat to sea.  He put a call through to the Naval HQ at Stromness.

“This is Lieutenant Rice.  Who is this?”

“Hello there, it’s George Thomson of the RNLI station.  I’ve just heard that there’s a ship down somewhere off Marwick Head.  Is that correct?”

“I’m sorry, Mr … Thomson … I really cannot discuss naval movements with unauthorised personnel!”

“Unauth…!  Laddie, my job is to help save lives at sea.  I’m as ‘authorised’ as I need to be.  I’m not asking you to divulge the movements of the Grand Fleet.  If there’s a cruiser down in this weather, men who might be saved are going to die.  Now stop wasting my time and give me the map reference.  Minutes count!”

“I’m sorry, I know nothing about a cruiser.  Good evening.”

In utter disbelief, George turned slowly to look at the earpiece of his telephone.  The man, barely more than a Snotty by his voice, had rung off: men possibly dying in freezing waters,
and he had rung off!
  Well, damn him!  He turned round to the lifeboat coxswain and nodded sharply, “Get her ready for sea, Alec.”

**********

“Boissier! Look! Over there.”

Boissier saw the movement a few hundred yards away at the cliff edge.  He’d be damned before he’d call it a ‘geo’ – it was a bloody cliff.  “Looks like a group of concerned citizens with ropes and lanterns.”

Pickup stood to look over the streaming windscreen.  “The road ends here.”  He tried to chuckle at Boissier but the effort of getting up on his feet nearly made him throw up for the third time since leaving Stromness.  He’d be seeing double for sure if his right eye wasn’t completely closed, he thought. “You’ll have to get those lovely hand-made shoes wet!”

Both men left the car, Boissier snarling at every flap of his cold, wet trousers clinging to his legs below the oilskin, and heaved forward into the violence of the wind coming straight off the sea.  A hundred yards took them the best part of ten minutes to cover but they finally arrived at the cliff edge where they were welcomed by the group.

“Good evening, gentlemen!  Have we found any survivors?  No? Dear me, dear me.  We’re very grateful for all your help.  I’m Lieutenant Boissier of the RMA and this is Surgeon-Commander Pickup of the Royal Navy.”  He patted Pickup solicitously on the arm.  “We had a bit of an accident on the way over, as you can see.”

Each of the locals introduced themselves but the names were snatched away by the wind and swallowed by the muffled clothes they wore.  Boissier continued, “There will be other naval parties along shortly and they’ll tell you what to do.  Follow their instructions to the letter.  You probably do not know that Lord Kitchener himself was aboard the sunken ship.”  The wide-eyed stares confirmed it.  “That’s why the Surgeon Commander is here – just in case His Lordship or any of his party makes it ashore.”

One of the rescue party pointed down to the water line where the waves were bashing a Carley raft mercilessly.  “Ten puir souls were clinging to that raft but they were washed away before we could get a line down to them.”  He shaded his eyes against the driving rain and scanned the sea.  “We’ve been here about half an hour but there’s no sign of anyone else and with the wind the way it is, I think if there
are
any other rafts they’ll have been blown down the coast towards Skaill.”

Boissier patted him on the shoulder.  “Thank you so much for your efforts.”  He turned to the other men. “You, too, gentlemen.  It would be a great help if you could stay here for a while longer, if you can stand it, just in case.  Meanwhile, since Commander Pickup and I have transport, we’ll run down to Skaill as fast as we can in this weather and check for anyone coming ashore.”  Seeing them eagerly nod assent, Boissier and Pickup said their farewells and returned to the car.

As they reversed back to the main road, Pickup was deep in thought.  “Surgeon-Commander,” he announced, after a while. “That out-ranks you, doesn’t it?”

Boissier smiled at him, pityingly.  “Remember – it’s all just fairy tales for the peasants.  None of it’s real.”  With an effort, he put the car into first gear and headed south once more.  “Right.  We should just make a bee-line straight for Skaill Bay in case they make it there like the yokel said.  No-one’s going to come up alive from those bloody cliffs but keep an eye out for any rescue parties, nevertheless, as we go along.  I want that bastard Hubert.”

“Banfield’s mine – no arguments this time, Boissier.”

**********

A hoarse shout made George Thomson turn round from his thoughts.  It was the coxswain.  “We’re ready, George!  Everyone’s standing by in their lifebelts.  Do we launch?”  Thomson looked down at the slipway.  In the gathering dusk, he could just make out the crew in the backwash of light from the lanterns – all good lads, local fishermen who knew the seas around the islands as well as he did – but that damn Rice’s attitude was puzzling him.  Was it possible he’d make some naval manoeuvre
worse
by launching on his own recognizance?  Was there something he didn’t know?

“Wait a minute, Alec.  Mr Gilchrist and I’ll take a quick drive over there to see if we can straighten this out.

“Aye, but George – this weather …”

“I know, Alec, I know but perhaps the Navy knows more about this than they’re letting on.  Perhaps the area is mined to hell and back.  We’d better be sure.  I’ll be back quick as I can.”

Naval HQ at Stromness was only a short distance away and, within ten minutes, the two men were shaking the rain off their overcoats in the small office of a junior Naval officer who looked up at them petulantly.

“Yes?  Can I help?”

Thomson saw the nameplate on the desk and leaned over it on his fists.  “
Sub
-Lieutenant Rice, is it not? I have just had the dubious pleasure of speaking with you a little while ago.  My name is Mr George Thomson of the RNLI and this is my friend and colleague Mr Gilchrist.”

“How do you do, gentlemen?” stammered Rice.  “I’m afraid that if this visit is anything to do with our conversation, then I’m very much afraid that …”

“I will
not
waste any further time with you, Lieutenant!  There will be men dying out there!  Now I want to talk to the most senior officer you can muster at this time of the evening.  If Commander Walker is around, he’s the man.  He commands the Western Patrol – he, at least, should be able to give me the clearance I need.”

“Well, I’m not sure I can just conjure him up at a moment’s notice, Sir.  I’m sorry to be blunt but we just do not need any civilian help.  If there
is
a cruiser in trouble – and I make no admission of the fact – then it’s a job for professionals.”  Rice looked at him defiantly.  “Not
amateurs
.”

Thomson drew himself up and looked down at Rice, trying to think of a way to eat him alive while still remaining civilised, when the door of the inner office opened suddenly and an officer with a lot more braid walked in.  Thomson recognised him immediately and went across to shake hands.

“Commander Walker.  I’m George Thomson, Secretary of the lifeboat station here and this is my friend Mr Gilchrist.  I don’t think you and I have met but I know you by sight.  This is a terrible thing that’s happened here…”

“Let me just stop you there, Mr Thomson.  I believe Lieutenant Rice has made things quite clear to you.  Thank you very much for your help but we do not require it.”

“You do not
require
it?  And what about the lads out there?  Don’t you think
they
require it?”