Letterstime - Ein Geleitzug: Homeward Bound? Part XXXV
July 7, 1915
---- Room 40
“From Commodore Nott ...”
Jan fought to maintain a semblance of alertness as
the report was announced. Exhaustion
sapped the mind no less than the body.
Sartore had finally taken himself off to get “a bite to eat and a bit of
rest”. The two of them had planned
twelve hour shifts with a little overlap, but they had ended up doing eighteen
hours each with breaks as brief as physically possible.
“... battlecruisers confirmed to be Derfflinger and
Seydlitz ....”
No surprise there.
Triangulation of enemy wireless messages, along with interpretation and
call signs, had placed the German Admiral Necki - known to be the present
commander of the battlecruiser force - in the area.
“... three light cruisers and fifteen torpedoboats
....”
That would explain the other call signs.
“That’s three half-flotillas,” Jan heard someone
remark. “Didn’t Necki have four of them
with him on the last sortie?”
“Yes, and so did Letters, for that matter. Back when he had the battlecruisers.”
“Quite,” another acknowledged, “but I’m not sure that
explains what the Commodore’s been chasing all day.”
“Yes, it is a bit odd, that, but ... do you think
Nott knows there’s probably another half-flotilla out there he’s not sighted
yet?”
---- Southampton, course 305, speed 25 knots
Commodore Nott knew alright. About his eyes were the beginnings of
pressure bruises from his binoculars jolting into his face. He was forced to hold them that hard to his
eyes due to his constant shivering in his more-than-damp uniform, wetted
obviously by the spray cast up from the bows and thankfully less obviously
else-wise.
“Lookouts, report!”
He had asked a dozen times in the last ten minutes.
“No ships in sight, sir.”
And had gotten the same answer each time.
No one minded, Commander Dedmon was absolutely
certain on that score. How in the hell
had the Commodore divined the Hun trap?
And one laid so cunningly, after hours of such sameness that anyone
would have been lulled into ....
“Navigator!
Visibility estimate, if you please.
Current and forecast.”
Anyone!
“Sir, 10,000 yards, maximum. Tending down, sir. Overcast’ll drop it to 6,000 ‘fore midnight.”
“Very well.
Lookouts! Report!”
Anyone, but Commodore Nott. (NOTE 1)
---- HMS Warspite, course 165, speed 15 knots
Admiral DeRobeck had slowed the fleet once visibility
had dropped and contact lost. He leaned
over the chart, one marked with all the last reported positions of both friend
and foe. Birmingham had just reported
losing sight of the last of the screen units with which Dalrymple had been
sparring in his unsuccessful attempts to regain sight of the German dreadnought
force. Still, they couldn’t have gotten
far. Yet.
His own dreadnought force was here and Harwich Force
was ... there. And Letters, his German counterpart,
could not be in possession of either fact.
DeRobeck also had absolute confirmation that the German dreadnought
force was without its battlecruiser element, as he knew precisely where both of
the in-theatre German battlecruisers were, along with their substantial screen
units.
At this moment, he knew that he had the advantage of
superior intelligence, though this advantage would, like the tide, ebb by the
hour.
What were the Germans up to? Letters had made bold and aggressive choices
in January and May and had made them, if Hereford’s research was accurate,
completely ad hoc. The decision to send
his only two undamaged battlecruisers all the way across the Atlantic had been
bold to the point of rash, and obviously NOT ad hoc at all. Yet DeRobeck had personally observed Letters
just days ago making conservative decisions, almost to the point of timidity.
The Commander - Grand Fleet drummed his fingertips in
the chart edge as he contemplated the current situation. If Letters today had chosen the conservative
course, then he would be continuing on his way back to port, clutching his tiny
but credible victory: a Town, a couple AMCs, and a shore raid at the cost of
only a torpedoboat or two. If the Hun admiral
had chosen rash aggression, he might well have reversed course again at dusk,
seeking a night engagement with the British dreadnought force at some guessed
intersect point. The latter seemed quite
unlikely, given that Letters could not be certain that DeRobeck was at sea, let
alone his location, course, and speed.
Still, DeRobeck was not prepared to rule it out completely; the North
Sea was infested with u-boats who could have sighted the fleet at a distance
and remained undetected.
In any case the stakes were just too great, and there
were practical measures he could take to avert any such risks, the first of
which he had already taken by reducing speed.
“Captain Swafford, your views?”
Swafford had half-expected a question of some sort
like this. Admiral Jellicoe had
maintained a full staff aboard Iron Duke, including senior officers. Warspite had lesser flag accommodations and
DeRobeck so far seemed to prefer a small staff at sea anyway. Still, it was intimidating to be called upon
to field such open-ended questions from the Grand Fleet commander like
this. Perhaps worst of all, Swafford
knew that an answer was expected, and so he had one of sorts ready.
“Sir, the battlecruisers. Their mission just doesn’t seem to fit with
all the rest.”
It was not much of an answer, Swafford realized, as
he heard it trundle off his tongue.
Still, it seemed to have been considered to hold some promise, because
DeRobeck rewarded him with a serious half-nod.
“Yes, go on.”
“Sir, the raid, if there was one. Light ships only. Nothing larger than a light cruiser, if
that. Why sortie their entire High Seas
Fleet over that? If Letters truly wanted
to provoke a fleet engagement via a light ship raid, why dispatch his battlecruisers
- the only asset we cannot match - off to the other end of the North Sea? Well outside of any support range?”
Swafford concealed a wince, as he realized that he
had just answered the question of the Commander - Grand Fleet with at least
three of his own.
“So, Captain, the raid and dreadnought sortie may
have been a diversion for the battlecruiser sweep of the patrol line? Is that your meaning?”
“Yes, sir.
Perhaps ... trying to improve the prospects for ¼
future blockade runners.”
“Sir,” Swafford hadn’t noticed the approach of LT
Hereford, “could the battlecruisers be escorting another clutch of fast liners?”
Swafford felt his jaw drop. THAT was a troubling notion! Four battlecruisers loose in the shipping
lanes? How could they counter that? Could Admiral Burney with Benbow and Hercules
fight four battlecruisers at one time, if they could even be caught?
“Not impossible, Lieutenant,” DeRobeck replied, “but
I think that fails as it leaves unexplained what the good Commodore has been
chasing south for most of the day. No,
but if we turn that on its head, I think you may be on to something. Dispatching Admiral Necki up there to help
see the others back home, well, that sounds a lot more like it.”
“Admiral!”
Swafford could not keep his voice entirely level. “That, well, I don’t know how they could have
slipped back through the Strait, but it fits the facts otherwise! ... All of
them, I think. The raid, the fleet
sortie ... misdirection, all of it.”
“Perhaps,” said DeRobeck. “And it would explain why he turned away on
the 3rd. Instead of pressing
the engagement right from the start.”
Swafford blinked, as did Hereford. DeRobeck was haring off after game they’d not
even spotted.
“But what it does not explain, gentlemen, is why they
sortied to shell Southwald in the first place.
This does not strike me as the sort of thing one would want to tip off
with some sort of full dress rehearsal.
I can hardly credit that their Admiral Letters would see it any differently.
“Well, no matter.
I cannot refuse a chance to intercept them. Signals Officer ....”
---- HMS Dublin, 250 yards astern of HMS Southampton
“Sir, Southampton ... there’s the ‘Execute’,
sir. She’s put her rudder over.”
“Very well,” LCDR Cyrus Phonone acknowledged. “Deck Officer, stay in position.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Helm ....”
Phonone remained a bit numb now, a full hour after
the all-too-familiar spectacle of a pair of Hun battlecruisers coming at them,
right down their throat. Or what would
have been down their throat if the Commodore hadn’t somehow divined their
presence. Again. How had Nott done it? Did the man have some sort of fey
battlecruiser dowsing rods?
“Sir, from Southampton, formation change, immediate
execute, ‘echelon starboard’.”
“Acknowledge.”
Phonone swept the horizon again, as he had so many
times these last two days. Admiral
Napier’s staff offices seemed impossibly distant and alien now.
“Sir, in position, steady on course 100, speed 15
knots.”
“Very well.”
Nott had slowed before turning back and had presumably selected this new
course to achieve some substantial offset from their previous track before
turning back more southerly. Clearly,
the battlecruiser admiral was trying to trap them but Nott was wise to it. Goodgod, but it was a privilege to have such
officers to follow!
“Sir, from Southampton, immediate execute, ‘25 knots’.”
“Very well.
Acknowledge.”
---- Room 40
The uncountable cups of tea he had taken in to retain
some semblance of awake alertness had sent Jan off to the loo again when the
messages from Admiral DeRobeck had been received. The big map was already being updated by the
time he had returned.
Why had the Grand Fleet gone to 090? Jan blinked blearily at the vector notations
as they were appended. And at 18 knots
despite visibility under 6,000 yards?
And Harwich Force? Tyrwhitt’s
orders were to spread out well to the southwest of the dreadnought force. That made some sort of sense, Jan decided, as
that would have Tyrwhitt blocking any new lunge toward British waters while
safeguarding DeRobeck’s southern flank.
He drifted over to eavesdrop on what looked to be several conversations
related to the new dispositions.