The Horizon (1993) (19 page)

He took the tumbler from Drury and looked across at the captain. Strained to the limit. It was there in every gesture.

Soutter said, ‘A lot of changes.’

‘Yes.’ He let the fine malt whisky run over his tongue. Sergeant McCann was promoted to sergeant-major, Corporal Timbrell, the Londoner, had been made up to sergeant. He had seen the pleasure and pride on Timbrell’s foxy face and wondered why he still felt no satisfaction at his own promotion. He was losing young Roger Tarrier, who had been ordered to relieve
Reliant
’s one surviving Royal Marine officer so that the latter, who had commanded the marines’ gun crews in Y Turret, could take over Seddon’s work. Tarrier’s quick promotion to acting-lieutenant, to be quarters officer for two of the ship’s great guns, would do his career no harm. But Jonathan knew he would miss the youth’s simple honesty all the same.

He said, ‘There’s to be a new R.M. battalion to work in liaison with the Royal Engineers, and a Gurkha battalion.’

Their eyes met, each thinking the same. There was to be no let-up, no acceptance of stalemate, despite the casualties that mounted with each advance or counter-attack. Another landing was even now being planned to take the pressure off the Australians at Anzac, where the whole front was devoid of depth and proper communications.
Only the previous day the Australians had launched a determined attack on a vital crest line, similar but far larger than the one Jonathan’s own men had taken. The cheering infantry had driven the Turks back and eventually cleared them completely from the ridge, but because of poor communications the advance had not been reported to the bombarding squadron, and the cruiser H.M.S.
Bacchante
had opened a murderous fire on the ridge, still believed to be in enemy hands. The bombardment had forced the Australians from their captured trenches, only to be cut down by machine-gun and sniper fire.

Soutter said at length, ‘And now I’m losing
you
.’

Colonel Waring had insisted that he needed Jonathan as his adjutant. The C-in-C had agreed.

‘I shall miss the ship, sir. I know marines are not supposed to care – “By Sea, By Land” and that kind of attitude – but I’ve been happy in
Reliant
.’

Soutter eyed him gravely. ‘Naval Intelligence is convinced that a German submarine is on its way here.’ He did not mention how Rear-Admiral Purves had scoffed at the idea when the rumour had first filtered through.
Impossible! No submarine could reach this far without refuelling!
‘You may as well know, Blackwood, that the Admiralty, or Lord Fisher to be precise, is going to withdraw the battleship
Queen Elizabeth
 . . . to prevent his finest man-of-war from being sunk, of course.’

Jonathan was not sure whether he had expected it or not. After the appalling naval losses when the fleet had attempted to pass through the Turkish minefields and force the Narrows against well-sited shore batteries
and without support from the army, the doubt had always lingered. Apart from the lightly-armoured
Reliant
, most of the capital ships were outdated, relics as he had heard Purves call them. The ‘Q.E.’ as she was affectionately known, was the newest and most powerful battleship in the fleet, if not in the world. To lose her would be a disaster; to Lord Fisher, who had done more than anyone to force this hopeless campaign into action, it would be something personal.

Jonathan said, ‘What about the troops ashore, sir?’

Soutter was on his feet by the scuttle as more explosions made the hull tremble.

‘They will have
Reliant
and
Impulsive
, and some monitors to offer full support when the new landings are launched.’

But Jonathan recalled the great fleet which had hurled tons of explosives ahead of the first landings. The soldiers had come to rely on those guardian ships for everything: to see the most powerful of them sail away would damage morale even more than their own lack of progress had done. They would still have the monitors, flat-bottomed warships with a broad beam out of all proportion to their length, which because of their shallow draught could manoeuvre right inshore. Once in position these floating gun-platforms could use their huge guns, high-mounted in a single turret, to provide support for the army. But they were not the ‘Q.E.’

Soutter added, ‘I feel badly about it. It’s like a betrayal.’

Reliant
would be leaving Mudros at first light for another long-range bombardment. Soutter had already
pressed the admiral to plead with the C-in-C to oppose any such withdrawal, but communications with Purves were now almost impossible. He had found the rear-admiral lying on a couch in his day cabin, more drunk than sober. Soutter could still feel the anger running through him like fire. Purves had been drunk on that other occasion when
Assurance
had run down the fishing boats in the North Sea, and had been prepared to swear that he had not ordered the navigation lights to be switched off or that Soutter was merely obeying those orders. But unknown to either of them there had been a witness, a youthful sub-lieutenant who had been prepared to give evidence before any kind of court. So Purves had changed his tune and offered favourable evidence instead on his gunnery officer’s behalf, and the looming clouds of war had dampened any further interest in Soutter’s court-martial.

Purves had stared at him angrily. ‘What do you care? I certainly don’t! If Fisher or any one of their lordships or Churchill himself for that matter want to withdraw some ships I do not intend to create . . .’

Soutter had left, swinging the door shut so hard that the marine sentry had jumped with alarm.

Maybe there was a U-Boat, and maybe not. If it existed it was taking its time. But the Germans were already heavily involved with the Turks and the man who commanded their army was a Prussian general, Otto Liman von Sanders, and most of his field commanders were his own.

‘You know that I’m soon to lose my second-in-command?’

Jonathan nodded, wondering why Soutter found it so easy to talk to him. He had heard that Coleridge, ‘the Bloke’, was being given his own command: he knew too that Soutter had insisted he accept the promotion even though it deprived him of a very competent commander, and one who had been with the ship since the day she had been launched.

Soutter was saying, ‘I suppose I’ll soon break in the new boy, whoever he turns out to be. And leaving
Reliant
might take Coleridge’s mind off poor Bruce Seddon – they were quite good chums, I understand.’

More memories: the pretty nurse with the dark hair poking from beneath her veil, Seddon staring at him, numb with shock and disbelief although death was everywhere and wounded men lined every deck; and more, many more would be brought out from the peninsula every day until this agonising contest was settled.

A sub-lieutenant was ushered into the cabin. ‘The commander’s respects, sir, and a boat is alongside to take Major Blackwood ashore.’ He was at great pains to look at neither of them.

Unexpectedly, Soutter held out his hand. ‘I’ll not come up – I hate farewells. We shall meet again, I have no doubt.’ His grip was firm and very hard, like the man.

On deck the air was hot, and without much movement. Jonathan shaded his eyes to look at the far-off flashes, listening to the guns where men fought in gullies and dried-up streams with bomb and bayonet, among the forgotten corpses and the army of rats. The hotter it got the more hellish it became. Dirt, infection, lice: the soldier’s lot. He grimaced.
Ours too
.

He considered Soutter’s bitterness, and remembered something Coleridge had told him concerning Soutter’s wife. Why had she left him? Was this ship nothing more than a rival to her? Could she not share her husband’s pride?

He found them all waiting to see him over the side: the commander, the bearded navigator Howard Rice, Quitman the gunnery officer and of course, young Roger Tarrier. People he had come to know and respect in so short a time. Then it was over and he was in the pinnace, staring astern at the crouching ship, her White Ensign quite limp like a salute. Living faces, dead faces, his young marines on that hard-won ridge, the telegrams reaching their homes. And
Reliant
’s motto:
We
will never give in
.

Nor had they.

Speculation about the
Queen
Elizabeth
’s future ended abruptly a few days after Jonathan left
Reliant
. For the first time since the campaign had begun, the enemy made a daring and reckless attack on the bombarding squadron by sea. A Turkish destroyer, the
Muavanet-i-Miliet
, manned entirely by officers and seamen of the Imperial German Navy, managed to avoid the patrols and then torpedoed the battleship H.M.S.
Goliath
. She was hit by three torpedoes and sank in minutes, with the loss of five hundred lives. The attack was completely unexpected, and more of her company could have been saved had not the other ships wasted valuable time in taking what they imagined was avoiding action against the much talked-of German submarine.

The ‘Q.E.’s recall from the Dardanelles was immediately signalled, and seeing his campaign frustrated and in ruins Lord Fisher resigned from the Admiralty. As Sergeant-Major McCann was heard to remark, ‘Pity we’re not allowed to resign when things get a bit nasty!’ His outspoken bitterness was shared by the entire force of men assembling for the new landings.

They were still stunned by
Goliath
’s loss when on May 25th Otto Hersing, one of Germany’s most successful submarine commanders, arrived off the Straits in his U-21.

Hersing had proved himself both skilful and quite fearless in the early months of the war, when in the same submarine he had broken through a destroyer screen off St Abbs’ Head to torpedo and sink the cruiser H.M.S.
Pathfinder
, even though the weather had been bad and there had been a real risk of the boat porpoising and breaking surface to face the destroyers’ combined gunfire.

Rumour had not exaggerated but he had not come directly to the Straits: he had first called at the Austro-Hungarian base at Cattaro in Pola to carry out repairs and refuel after his long passage from Germany. On that first day, while cruising submerged off Gaba Tepe, he sighted another great battleship, H.M.S.
Triumph
, a veteran in every sense, and fired just one torpedo. That was all it took, and even as the huge vessel began to heel over Hersing dived beneath the hull to avoid detection. All but seventy of
Triumph
’s men were picked up, as the attack had happened in bright sunshine, but the dismay and humiliation remained to haunt the fleet.

Most submarine commanders would have been content with one battleship, but not Otto Hersing. Two days later off Cape Helles where
Reliant
had carried out several bombardments another battleship, the
Majestic
, suffered the same fate, although she was surrounded by anti-torpedo nets and patrol craft. Hersing waited for a small gap to appear between the protective boats and merely fired through the nets. In the confusion there was great loss of life.

The officers and men of the fleet were profoundly shocked. In the campaign so far the C-in-C, Admiral de Robeck, had lost six battleships and most of the souls who had manned them.

The signal was repeated around the fleet: all major warships were to take shelter in Mudros Bay, and the bombardments of Turkish positions were to be given over to the monitors and destroyers, with their very limited armament.

As the newly assembled Royal Marines battalion and part of the re-formed R.M. brigade were put to work, training and drilling in preparation for the next landings, each man was very aware that he was to be sacrificed for the same ships which now lay at anchor.

The soldiers and marines worked in the sweltering heat, laying wire, stabbing at dangling dummies with their bayonets, hacking out makeshift trenches and carrying out firing practice on the ranges. Even Beaky Waring must have learned a hard lesson on the peninsula, Jonathan thought. He had been heard to rasp at one of the new lieutenants as he drilled his men in the sweltering heat: ‘Train these men to
fight
, sir! They are not mounting guard at the Palace!’

And every day, with terrible regularity, the boats arrived at Mudros with their wounded and dying piled on bottom-boards, some of which were completely awash with blood.

One week followed another, with bad food, flies and dysentery taking their own toll of the men who waited and listened to the hunger of the distant artillery. Finally Waring sent for Jonathan.

He was found standing by a trestle-table in his tent, his huge nose shining in the reflected glare through the canvas. He had grown leaner, and, if possible, less tolerant, and between them there now existed a sort of truce which had arisen out of necessity.

Thought you should know, Blackwood. I’ve just had the signal. It’s to be at Suvla Bay, four weeks from now. It’s here on the map but I’ve never heard of the damned place . . . We’ll call an officers’ meeting when I know something more.’

Never heard of the damned place
. In four weeks’ time everyone would have heard of it.

He tried to imagine Wyke in some smart café or bar, raising his glass to them, but the comforting picture eluded him. All he could see were those dead, youthful faces.

Was that where it would be? He had thought Livesay marked for death, but he had been wrong.

Maybe it’s my turn now.

Waring said savagely, ‘I’m going to have a drink, Blackwood. What about you?’

They regarded one another warily, and then Jonathan heard himself reply, ‘Yes, sir. Better make the most of it.’

The remainder of July passed swiftly, and a general apprehension at the total lack of news made the perpetual training a misery. The assembled divisions of troops, Royal Marines and contingents from Australia, New Zealand and India somehow endured the appalling conditions, and food which even the sturdy Gurkhas found inedible.

Then, in the midst of final preparations, Brigadier-General Sir Charles Nugent arrived to take charge of the regrouped battalions and the mixture of recruits from England. A short, strutting figure with a full military moustache and a breast of medals which were for the most part unrecognisable to the new men, Nugent wasted no time in summoning his senior officers.