Wars to End All Wars: Alternate Tales from the Trenches Read online

  “The Turks would not dare harbor them,” Wray said. “They must know it would turn us against them. We are their naval advisors; they asked for an alliance with us only last year—”

  “Which was refused,” Cradock pointed out. “The government did not want to inflame the Russians or the Germans with a formal alliance there . . . but I daresay the Turks took it differently. In addition, on our most recent visit to Turkey, I heard from the locals that Admiral Souchon was a great man. When I asked why, they told me about his having sent the crew of the Goeben to help fight a fire in a Turkish barracks in Constantinople, back in May. Several of the Germans died; the Turks—you know how emotional they are—got up a celebration of some kind.”

  “But . . . the Turks are neutrals. Even if they admire Souchon—”

  “They’re Turks. Intrigue is their nature, along with theft and pillage. They have as well that touchy Oriental vanity, which a trifling matter like assistance in a barracks fire would flatter. For Orientals, this is enough. It does not occur to them that any British captain would have done the same.”

  “But you don’t seriously believe they would come into the war as German allies? Not after all we’ve done for them—”

  “I doubt very much they would ally with Germany . . . but I can imagine them giving sanctuary to the Goeben and then finding Souchon more than a match for them. With those guns leveled at the city, can you imagine the pashas refusing his demands?”

  “Well, sir,” Coode said, “If this is what you think the Germans are going to do, then why aren’t we blockading the southern end of the Strait of Messina, instead of sitting over here watching for Austrians?”

  “Admiral Milne’s orders,” Cradock said. “I intend to ask Admiral Milne for permission to position the squadron where we can engage the Goeben under more favorable terms. We will need to move south to do so. Therefore, we must attend to coaling the destroyers at once.”

  Cradock took a turn on the deck, observing every detail of his squadron, the sea, the signs of weather in the sky, trying to avert his mind from the signs of weather—heavy weather—ahead in his relationship with his commander. Across the blue water, Corfu rose in terraces of gold and green; the mingled scents of lemon groves, thyme, and roses on the breeze competed with the nearer whiff of coal, oil, metal polish, and the freshly holystoned deck. Westward, beyond the blue morning shadows, sunlight burned on the lapis sea, and in the distant haze Italy’s heel formed a vague smudge on the horizon. In this second day of war, peace lingered here, where nothing but his own ships seemed warlike.

  When Milne finally answered his signal, it was to refuse permission to reinforce Gloucester at the western exit of the Strait of Messina.

  Cradock did not tell Milne he had sent the destroyers to coal at Ithaka. Half-formed in his mind, a plan grew, like a stormcloud on a summer’s day, hidden in wreaths of haze. If the Goeben broke free and ran east, as he expected, where and how could he catch her, given that his ships were slower? Not by a stern chase—she had outpaced even the big battle-cruisers. Not by an interception—she could spot his smoke as far away as he could spot hers, and with her speed easily avoid him. No—he had to decide where she was going to be, and surprise her.

  Which he could not do if he waited to ask Milne’s permission. Like a thundercloud suddenly revealed, his dilemma stood clear. Was he seriously considering ignoring his orders to guard the Adriatic, making an independent decision to anticipate Souchon’s movements and engage the enemy ships? Without informing Milne, in direct contravention of custom and naval law?

  The very thought made him wince. He had had it drummed into him, and he had drummed it into others: commanders command, and juniors obey. To act on his thoughts risked not only his ships and his men, but the very foundations of naval discipline. Even if he was right, even if he caught and sank the Goeben, he might well be court-martialed; he would certainly not be given another command. Milne would never forgive the insult; Beattie, Jellicoe . . . he winced again, imagining the astonishment and anger of men he respected, whose respect he desired. He was appalled himself. It was like a member of the field intervening in place of the M.F.H. and giving orders to the huntsmen.

  Yet—he remembered the cold day when he’d first seen the bumptious red-headed young officer of hussars who was now First Lord of the Admiralty. For a moment he warmed himself in the glow of that infectious grin, that intensity so kin to his own. Stirrup to stirrup they had faced stone walls, sunken lanes, hedges that in memory seemed as much larger as last year’s salmon. Bold, free-going, young Churchill’s mistakes would be those of confidence and high courage; he might fall, but he would never shirk a fence. He would approve.

  Yet again—Churchill was a civilian now, and had never been in the Navy. He had never been the model of an obedient young officer, even in a service as lenient as the cavalry. Moreover, he had a reputation as a weathercock, changing parties for profit. Cradock dared not trust that memory.

  His mind strayed to the First Sea Lord, Prince Louis Battenburg. An able man, who had earned his rank and position, but—would he understand the dilemma in which Cradock found himself? If only Jacky Fisher were still First Sea Lord! There was a fire-eater who would approve anything, were the Goeben destroyed.

  He took a long breath of Corfu’s aromatic air, and reminded himself that, after all, he might be wrong. Souchon might run for the Adriatic. Or even Gibraltar. He might not have to make that choice.

  Cradock ate a lunch that had no more flavor, in his distraction, than his breakfast. His destroyers had had to search all the way into the Gulf of Corinth for their collier, whose foreign captain had somehow gone to the wrong Port Vathi. Now they were coaling. Milne had finally reached the western exit of the Strait of Messina, with battle-cruisers who could surely defeat Goeben if Souchon were stupid enough to go that way. His own rebellious thoughts spurred him toward bigger obstacles.

  He could not wait until a crisis to decide what his priorities were, just as a foxhunter could not wait until the last few strides before a fence to decide whether to jump. That way lay shies and refusals. No, the bold rider sent his horse at every fence resolved to clear it. His officers and men needed his direction, his resolution.

  Nelson had been blind to a stupid order at Copenhagen—could he not be deaf to a stupid order in Greece?

  Who was he, to compare himself to Nelson?

  Should not every English admiral compare himself to Nelson, and strive to match his stature? Would Nelson be more afraid of displeasing a senior, or letting an enemy escape?

  But Nelson had not had a wireless to pass on every whim of commanders far away. How would a Nelson have dealt with that distraction? Again he thought of Copenhagen, of Nelson putting the telescope to his blind eye.

  He had one advantage surely more valuable than speed or guns, a depth of knowledge of the Mediterranean which neither Milne nor Souchon could match. He knew it in all seasons, all weathers, in more detail than Souchon could possibly have acquired in only ten months. His mind held not only chart data, but mental images of bays and inlets and passages apt for coaling, for unseen passage from one island to another. Shingle beaches, sand beaches, steep cliffs dropping straight into deep water, sea caves . . . like familiar fields long hunted over, whose every hedge and fence and gate is known to members of the hunt, he could bring it all to mind.

  August 6, 2030 hours.

  On the broad breast of the sea, the moonlight shone, as it had for thousands of years, lighting sailors home. Now it lit dark billows of coal smoke against a sea like hammered pewter. Two long, lean shapes slid through the quiet sea, menacing even as they fled. Behind them, a third, much smaller: H.M.S. Gloucester trailing the German ships Goeben and Breslau, and by her own smoke they knew she was shadowing them. To port, the coast of Italy, opening northward into the Gulf of Otranto; far ahead, on this course, the bootheel of Taranto, aimed in a backward kick at the narrow strait that led into the Adriatic.

  On Defence, south of C
orfu, Cradock stared at the charts and finally shook his head. Gloucester had reported the German ships leaving the Strait of Messina just after 1700 GMT, 1800 local time. Now, over two hours later, the German ships were still steaming ENE, as if aiming for the Adriatic. If that was where they were going, it was time to move the squadron north to intercept them. Cradock did not believe it.

  “He must turn, and turn soon,” he said.

  “If they go north . . .” Captain Wray glanced at him. The other cruiser captains said nothing; they would let the flag captain do the talking, for now. “Our orders said keep them out of the Adriatic.”

  “He is a fox; he will not run into that trap.” He felt a prickle of annoyance; he had explained this before. He sensed in Wray less enthusiasm for the chase than he would have wished in his flag captain. Weeks before, during a discussion of the German ship, Wray had kept harping on the German battle cruiser’s strength, the range of its guns. Now he repeated himself.

  “But . . . even if you’re right, sir . . . the Goeben is far too powerful for us to engage without at least one of the battle-cruisers to assist.”

  Cradock smiled at Wray, trying to hearten him. “She has bigger guns, certainly. And more armor. And more speed. But she is only one—no—” He put up his hand to forestall the younger man’s correction. “I know, she has Breslau. But we easily overmatch Breslau. At night, along the coast of Greece . . . Goeben’s advantages lessen markedly.”

  “Ah.” Wray’s face lightened. “You intend a night engagement in navigation waters? With the destroyers . . .”

  “Yes. Pity it’s so clear. But if we position ourselves where I am convinced she is likely to go, we can pick our best location, where the Goeben’s speed and range cannot help her. Then our numbers must count. I expect she will pick up her pace after her turn—she is only luring Gloucester on, loafing along at 18 knots or so, hoping her lookouts will slack off.”

  “Not Captain Kelly’s lookouts,” Wray said, grinning.

  “Quite so. So when she turns, I expect her to pick up speed, to 24 knots or more, and be off the southern capes of Greece before dawn. Now—this is what I propose—” He spread the chart back out and explained in more detail.

  2130 hours

  Cradock was dozing in his cabin, taking what rest he could, when Captain Wray called him. “Signal’s just in from Gloucester, Admiral,” he said. “The Germans have turned, just as you thought. They were trying to jam the signal, but Gloucester kept sending. I took the liberty of informing Admiral Milne, but have received no reply yet.”

  Milne, Cradock thought, would be sure it was a trick. Luckily Milne would be still at dinner, and unlikely to give a return signal until he had finished. He didn’t want to talk to Milne about what he planned, and be told not to do it. “What’s her speed?” he asked.

  “Nineteen knots,” Wray said.

  “Odd,” Cradock said. “I expected a spurt. Souchon must want to evade Gloucester; that would have been the ideal time to do so.”

  “She just turned.”

  “Mm. Ask Gloucester to inform us instantly of any change in her course or speed. And set the squadron’s course to take us south to Sapienza behind Cephalonia and Zante.” If the German ships kept that speed, his ships could easily arrive at Sapienza well before them, and choose their best place to engage.

  Within minutes, he felt the cruiser thrust into the gentle swell with more urgency. Far below, sweating stokers would be shoveling coal into the furnaces . . . coal he would have to replenish. His mind ranged ahead, to the location of colliers.

  It was near midnight when Captain Wray tapped at his door. Cradock woke instantly, the quick response of the seaman.

  “Another report from Gloucester, sir. The German ships have separated; Captain Kelly’s following the Goeben, and she is on the same course, at 17 knots. Dublin’s trying to find them; she has two destroyers with her, Bulldog and Beagle.”

  “Seventeen knots.” Cradock ran a hand through his hair. Why was such an admiral, with such a ship, crawling across the Mediterranean at a mere 17 knots when he could have outpaced the Gloucester and been free of her surveillance? “He has some problem,” Cradock said. “He didn’t get coal—no, we know he got some coal. He didn’t get enough to go where he wants to go—he’s moving at his most economical speed to conserve it until he meets a collier somewhere. Or . . . he has boiler trouble.”

  “You can’t know that, sir.”

  He didn’t know it. He knew only that no man with a ship fast enough to shake a shadower would fail to do so unless something had gone wrong. And Goeben had been snugged away at the Austrian naval base of Pola for weeks before the war started. She could have been undergoing repairs . . . and those repairs could have been interrupted by the outbreak of war, just as his own ships’ repairs had been.

  “And our position?”

  “About eight miles off Santa Maura, sir, here . . .” Wray pointed out their position on the chart. “We’ll be entering the channel between Santa Maura and Cephalonia in the next hour. Oh—and Admiral Milne wants to know your dispositions.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Cradock said, stretching. “So do the Germans. Signal Admiral Milne that we are patrolling. I’m going up on deck for awhile.” Wray looked as he himself might have looked, had his admiral ever told him to send a false signal. But they were, he thought, following the orders Milne would have given—that the Admiralty wanted him to give—if Milne had but the wits to give them. They don’t pay me to think, Milne had said once . . . but they might pay a high price because Milne didn’t.

  The moon swung high overhead. To either side, the other cruisers knifed through the water, pewter ships on a pewter sea, blackening the starry sky with smoke. Behind them, sea-fire flared and coiled from their passage. Ahead, he could see the signal cones of the destroyers, and the white churn of their wakes, the phosphorescence spreading to either side. To port, Santa Maura, Leucas to most Greeks, rose from the sea in a tumble of jet and silver, the moon picking out white stone like a searchlight. Southward, the complicated shapes of Cephalonia and Ithaca, with the narrow straight passage between them.

  “Have the squadron fall into line astern,” he told Wray. The signal passed from ship to ship; the cruisers dropped smartly into line at four cables . . . his drills had accomplished that much. He hoped the gunnery drills had done as well. He noticed that the cones were all correctly hung. “Reduce speed if necessary, but not below 15 knots.”

  He thought of little Dublin, with her two destroyers, desperately trying to find the Germans by their smoke. She might be lucky, but she surely could not sneak up on Goeben in this clear moonlit night. The Germans could not fail to see her any more than he could fail to see the ships of his squadron. Perhaps he should send her to guard the Adriatic gate which he had left wide open? That made sense, but so did another plan. Let her go to Crete, where the Germans might have another collier standing by. At dawn, when he hoped to spring his trap on the Germans near the Peloponnese, the smoke of Dublin and her destroyers might make the Germans swing closer to the Greek capes.

  He gave these instructions, and eventually—atmospherics, the radioman explained—Dublin acknowledged them.

  August 7, 0230

  He had dozed again, his body registering every slight change of course, every variation in speed, while the squadron passed Santa Maura, Ithaca, the rugged heights of southern Cephalonia, the northern part of Zante. The tap at his door roused him instantly. It was Wray.

  “Sir . . . I have to say I don’t like it.”

  “What?” Cradock yawned as he checked the time. 0230.

  “At the speed Goeben is making, sir, she will not be at the Greek coast until late morning. We cannot bring her to battle in daylight; you said so yourself.” Wray stood there like someone who expected a vice-admiral to have the sun at his command. Cradock yawned again and shook his head to clear it.

  “Where is she now?”

  Wray moved to the table and pointed out Gloucest
er’s most recent position on the chart. Cradock smoothed his beard, thinking. “It’s inconvenient,” he murmured.

  “It’s impossible,” Wray said.

  Cradock looked at him. Surely he could not mean what that sounded like. “Explain, Captain.”

  “It’s what I said before, sir. She’s too fast, and her guns outrange ours. She can circle outside our range, picking off the cruisers one by one before they can get a shot.” Cradock frowned; was Wray seriously suggesting they abandon the attempt?

  “And you propose?”

  “To preserve the squadron for action in which it can have an effect,” Wray said. “We cannot possibly sink the Germans . . .”

  “I think you’re missing something,” Cradock said, smiling.

  “Sir?”

  “If the Germans do not appear until late morning—as it now appears—then we have time to entrap them where their greater speed will do them no good.”

  “But sir—she will see us if we’re in the Messinian Gulf. She can stand off Sapienza far enough—in fact it would be prudent to do so. We cannot fight her there.”

  “That is not the only place, not with the lead we seem to have. But it will require a new plan. Signal the squadron and the destroyers: we will heave to while I decide what to do.”

  “Yes, sir.” Wray left for the bridge; Cradock leaned over the charts.

  “Is it cleverness, or some difficulty?” Cradock said, to himself. Souchon had the reputation of a bold man. He had thrust all the way to Bone and Phillipeville, and made it safely back to Messina. Clever of him to leave Messina in daylight, clever to attempt that feint to the north. If he anticipated trouble in navigation waters, it was clever of him to slow, to arrive when he had the best visibility, when he could see a waiting collier, or British warships.

  He felt Defence shiver successively, like a horse shaking a fly from its skin, as the revolutions slowed and her speed dropped. Deliberately, he did not go on deck to see how the following cruisers obeyed the signals. Defence shuddered through her secondary period of vibration and steadied again.