He stood and sucked in the evening air, watching the forward guns returning slowly to their fore-and-aft position, their long muzzles burned and blackened by the heavy firing. A few seamen were digging out shell splinters from the deck where
Reliant
had received those first casualties, one of whom had since died.
Despite the Turks’ counter-attacks and their fanatical
determination to drive back any sort of advance,
Reliant
’s role in the bombardment must have played a tremendous part in forcing the enemy if not into retreat then under cover, where they could do no harm to the stream of men and supplies being landed on the shell-torn beaches. Each of
Reliant
’s big fifteen-inch shells contained twenty thousand bullets, and throughout the bombardment the distant hills and gullies beyond had smoked and erupted like volcanoes coming to life.
Jonathan climbed slowly to the upper bridge while the grimy sailors stood down from their secondary armament, exchanging white grins in stained faces: they looked shaky and dazed, and he was not surprised. The constant roar of guns, even when you were not on the receiving end, seemed to curdle a man’s brains. How much worse for the enemy, he thought.
The atmosphere on the bridge seemed relaxed by comparison. The admiral was leaning against the side, his binoculars following a series of vivid flashes on a hillside. Soutter sat on a step, his uniform dappled with paint flakes like snow. The others reached out gratefully for fresh tea as it was hauled through the bridge gates. Jonathan glanced at the sun-reddened faces, the regular British sailor in each one of them, contemptuous of every other nation’s bluejacket.
Soutter sipped his tea and half-listened to Lieutenant Rice speaking into the wheelhouse voicepipe. He saw Jonathan and waved the tea-fanny towards him.
‘Warm work, Blackwood. You should have been up here – the fleet really hit the enemy where it hurt.’
Jonathan contained his reply by sipping the tea, which
was scalding hot despite its meandering journey from the galley. He had wanted to be here, but it had been necessary for him to be with his men, to show them he was sharing it.
Uncannily, Soutter seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Hard, was it? I can understand how they feel.’
Purves said harshly, ‘God, look at that mad fool!’
It was one of their own steam pinnaces, and through the binoculars Jonathan saw it zig-zagging wildly in what appeared to be a great hail-storm, but he knew the hail was rapid fire from a cleverly sited machine-gun. A destroyer glided through the smoke and after firing at the shore at what seemed like point-blank range allowed the pinnace to resume its journey.
‘Senior officer on board, sir!’ That was the chief yeoman.
Purves snapped, ‘What sort?’
The yeoman lowered his glass and added heavily, ‘There’s some wounded as well.’
Soutter said, ‘Inform the chief boatswain’s mate. Tell the surgeon to have his crew ready.’ He glanced at the bearded lieutenant. ‘Slow ahead.’ He crossed stiffly to the compass, like a man who had not moved for hours.
‘Port ten. Steer South-seventy-East.’
Rice passed the order and watched the ticking compass. ‘Midships, steady.’ Unlike a smaller warship the wheelhouse was deep down behind heavy armour, and Jonathan could barely hear the man’s acknowledgement up the bell-mouthed pipe.
He felt the ship slowing down, her superstructure and funnels like painted bronze in the sunset.
Down on deck he could see the party already gathered to take the pinnace’s lines, and the surgeon’s white coat as he gestured to some men with stretchers.
The yeoman said, ‘One of the wounded is Mr Portal, sir.’
Soutter acknowledged it, his head cocked while he listened to the beat of engines. The face formed in his mind. A cherubic midshipman with freckles. He had celebrated his sixteenth birthday when they had been in Malta.
The yeoman added, ‘Don’t recognise none of the others, sir.’
Soutter said, ‘I think you should see the midshipman, sir.’
Purves seemed uneasy. ‘Why? I’m the last person on earth that young man will want to see just now.’
Without looking Soutter knew the boat had at last reached
Reliant
’s side. Just in time. It would soon be too dark to see anything.
‘When they’ve hoisted the boat resume course and speed, Pilot.’ He turned his back to the rear-admiral. ‘He is the only one of my officers who has seen anything at close quarters, and besides . . .’
‘He may not live, is that what you were going to say?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Hooked on, sir!’ There were far-off shouts and the squeal of calls as hands were piped to secure the pinnace once it had been hoisted to its tier.
Commander Coleridge appeared from the shadows. ‘Will I take over, sir?’
Soutter glanced at his admiral. ‘Yes. I shall go.’
Jonathan watched the rear-admiral but he said nothing.
Soutter said, ‘Come with me, Blackwood. It may be useful.’ Down on the wet decks where the leaking hoses were still doing their work he added, ‘I’ll just speak with our visitor.’ He introduced himself to a tall soldier who wore a bush hat and a colonel’s rank on his filthy uniform. ‘Rear-Admiral Purves is on the upper bridge.’ He beckoned to a midshipman. ‘This officer will take you to him.’
The soldier looked around as if he could not believe
Reliant
’s air of peace and orderly routine.
‘My God.’ He spoke quietly. ‘So this is the ship that was pounding those bastards for us!’ He sounded all in, beaten.
Soutter said, ‘I shall not be running any boats tonight. We’re taking up our cruising station with
Impulsive
.’ His arm shot out. ‘This man will take you to my quarters aft when you have done with the admiral. My steward will look after you.’
Jonathan could sense the soldier’s torn emotions as a distant explosion echoed against the ship.
Soutter asked abruptly, ‘How is it going, Colonel Ede?’
The man stared at him through the gloom. ‘You know me, Captain?’ When Soutter said nothing he shook his head. ‘It isn’t.’ He glanced at the stretcher-bearers as they vanished into the superstructure. Jonathan thought he might be comparing them with his own casualties.
Soutter persisted, ‘What does the general say?’
The colonel touched the midshipman’s arm. ‘Lead on,
sonny!’ He was obviously eager to meet the admiral, more so perhaps to find some brief sanity in the captain’s quarters. He began to move off and replied calmly, ‘He’s gone; they’ve all gone. I’m in command now.’
He vanished after the midshipman’s white patches and Soutter remarked, ‘I wonder how the other beaches are getting along.’
Jonathan followed him through a steel door into the ship’s warm interior and her familiar, oily smell.
The sick-bay was ablaze with light, the white-enamelled cots swaying very easily as the ship headed on her new course.
Soutter waited for John Robertson, the fleet surgeon, to leave his work and join him. He was a tall, imposing man with long and unfashionable sideburns and a severe manner.
Soutter said, ‘I want to see Mr Portal.’ He glanced at a cot with several sick-berth attendants stooping around it.
‘I
must
be allowed to do my work, Captain.’ There was anything but welcome in his tone. ‘I’d not interfere with yours!’
‘It is interfering with mine already, by my very being here. We’re five miles from the enemy coast and I’d be little use if anything unpleasant were to happen.’
Curiously, Jonathan felt that these two men very much admired one another despite their apparent hostility.
Robertson became very business-like. ‘The boy’s taken some splinters.’ He touched his own stomach with a large hand. ‘They did nothing for him ashore. He’s in great pain but I shall do what I can.’ He looked steadily into Soutter’s eyes. ‘To make the end peaceful.’
‘I see.’ Soutter removed his cap with the oak leaves around its peak.
Robertson shook his head. ‘No, keep it on, Captain, for the boy’s sake. Just be yourself. It’ll make it easier.’
The fleet surgeon looked at Jonathan and shrugged. ‘Otherwise we’re pretty quiet here.’ Soutter had reached the side of the cot. ‘Although I have a feeling that all that is about to change.’
Midshipman Timothy Portal looked even smaller than usual as he lay propped up in the cot. Jonathan stood a little apart from the captain and watched as the midshipman stared at his visitor, his mouth tightly closed against the pain.
‘Very sorry, sir.’
Such a faint, quavering voice and yet Jonathan had often seen him skylarking with his friends in harbour or during a make-and-mend.
Soutter said, ‘Well, you got back, didn’t you? That was bravely done. I shall come and see you later on when you’ve rested.’ He reached down and took one of the boy’s hands. ‘What was it like? If you’re strong enough, I’d be grateful to hear from you.’
The boy stared at him, his astonishment holding the pain at bay.
‘It was a terrible mess, sir.’ He peered at the hand on his own, the cuff with the four gold stripes on it which he had probably only seen at Divisions or when running errands to the bridge. ‘There was a gully.’ He screwed up his eyes to remember. ‘Men everywhere, dead and wounded piled up, and all the while they were shooting.’ His voice was becoming weaker. ‘Shooting. My cox’n
and stoker were killed outright – and when we went to find somebody I saw the beach. Stores, ammunition – dead men everywhere – all scattered about or crying for help. But nobody came—’
The fleet surgeon wiped his hands angrily on a towel. ‘I think that’s enough, sir. I’ll send for the chaplain.’
‘I’d rather you did not.’ His gaze lingered on the pinched white face, the grimace of agony, one eye drooping even as he watched. ‘Give him what you must, but spare him that hypocrisy. He is a brave young officer. Let him die knowing that.’
Robertson watched them leave. Soutter carried them all. He glanced round at his petty officer. The midshipman’s father was a friend of the captain’s too. ‘
Yes?
’
Another sick-berth attendant was drawing a white curtain around the cot.
‘He’s gone, sir. Best way, if you ask me.’
Robertson walked away. ‘I’ll surely remind you of that, Essex, when your turn comes!’
He relented slightly and beckoned to him to enter his private office with its shelves of vibrating jars and bottles. Then, reaching down, he pulled a bottle of Scotch from a drawer. ‘Have a dram, Essex. The last you’ll get for a time, I shouldn’t wonder.’
But he was thinking of Soutter’s face, his hand on the boy’s dying fingers, and of the marine officer who had been here with the captain.
Was that why Soutter had brought him? To see what to expect when the marines were put ashore?
He shook himself angrily. ‘Get this place prepared,
Essex. I’ll have a word with the commander about taking over the storerooms through the bulkhead.’
But the picture persisted, and the dying midshipman’s words,
crying for help, but nobody came
, seemed to hang in the air like an epitaph.
Lieutenant-Colonel Jack Waring’s eyes seemed to spark from either cheek as he stood, hands on hips with his back to the fireplace, and waited for the last Royal Marine officer to find a seat. None of the navy was there: the commander had sent word that even when off-watch the ship’s officers were to vacate the wardroom, in order that the Royals might hold this formal meeting.
There were about fifteen officers present, ranging in seniority from Major Livesay, commanding B Company, and Captain Seddon of
Reliant
’s own detachment, to the lieutenants and subalterns from the various ships. Some of the officers knew each other quite well, others were total strangers who would soon be required to trust one another with their very lives.
It was strange to see the wardroom like this, Jonathan thought, a place usually rife with complaints and laughter, the ship’s officers’ home until fate or their lordships decided otherwise. In the silence he could feel the gentle pulse of the great engines far below his chair, and saw the easy sway of the long curtains that divided the mess as the ship ploughed steadily into a light swell.
Waring’s sleek hair shone beneath the deckhead lights as he gazed severely at the faces of his officers.
He said, ‘You will all know our new orders, gentlemen. We are taking our place – our rightful place – in the
line, in positions already seized and held by the Australians and New Zealanders.’
Jonathan glanced at the tall Australian colonel who sat next to Major Livesay, and yet seemed completely isolated from them all. He had seen him during the day pacing the deck amongst the busy sailors, or watching a bombardment from the bridge, where he had been able to pass valuable information to the gunnery officer about the most suitable targets. When the six great guns had hurled themselves inboard on their springs he had remained there, had not appeared to flinch while the smoke and dust had eddied around him.
Waring raised his black stick and pointed at the big map which had been hung beneath the portrait of the King.
‘Once we have taken over these positions, the Australians can fall back to rest.’ He gave the colonel a thin smile. ‘They will be secure enough in our hands!’
Jonathan looked at some of the others. Young eager faces, some nervousness which showed itself in tightly-clenched fists, or quick whispers to a friend as if for reassurance. But that was usual enough before any real action.
He saw young Tarrier busy with his notepad as he sketched out this small section of a formidable coastline.
It would have made more sense to bring the senior N.C.O.’s to this meeting as well. Now they would all have to be told separately by their platoon commanders, and Jonathan had seen for himself how orders could lose their meaning once they had run the full length of the chain of command.
And there was the debonair Lieutenant Wyke of the third platoon, touching his small fair moustache with one knuckle. He seemed at ease, relaxed, and just before this meeting had been heard discussing the merits or otherwise of the girls at the London Pavilion, the popular music hall in Piccadilly, with his second-in-command Charles Cripwell, who looked as if he should still be at school.