0821, June 1st 1915, Engine Room One, HMS Benbow, at sea
It was rare for a captain in the Royal Navy to be seen with as much as
a smudge on his uniform. It was even rarer for said captain to risk his
uniform in the muck of the engine room. To see the captain in coveralls,
his face smeared with grease and his hair disheveled was nigh on impossible.
Yet Captain Lord Robert Herrick was not a typical Captain in the Royal
Navy. Seven of his thirty-six years had been spent commanding the ships
of His Majesty. His heritage ensured that eventually, he would fly the
flag of an Admiral. The heir to two of the Empire's earldoms and scion
of one of the great military families, he had no need to generate a false
image.
Instead, he climbed through the bowels of his ship. He had the damage
reports in his sea cabin. Yet reports can only say so much. I have
to see it all for myself. His need to inspect Benbow stemmed
from more than the mere need for information. Part of it was self-punishment:
punishment for his inability to keep these men safe. I need to see
every man. I need to see every hole in the ranks, every bloodstain and
scar.
He looked into the eyes of his men. His father, a Vice-Admiral in his
own right, had told him that a man's eyes showed what the rest of his
body hid. The eyes of his men ripped Herrick apart. Many, if not most,
of my men have never seen combat. They were completely unprepared for
the smashing of line versus line. Their eyes had never seen the heartbreaking
flash of a magazine detonation. They were unaccustomed to watching beautiful
ships pounded into wrecks by a shells that weighed no more than a tram.
They never had to cope with the shudders as their ship, their home, was
hit. They never slipped on the blood of their shipmates. They never smelled
the sickly sweet smell of death. I took that innocence from them. I wasn't
able to protect them from that. Yet we got off lightly. We are still here.
There are worse holes in other ships. There are ships that will never
come home. So why don't I feel lucky?
Soon Herrick came to Engine Room One. He wished that he wouldn't have
to look at any more men. He wished he didn't have to see any more missing
men. I must. I owe them that much.
Commander Campbell had mustered every man not essential to the functioning
of the engines for his captain. Herrick inspected the ranks: he looked
for the walking wounded, signs of recent battle. Fortunately, Benbow's
torture had not hurt her engineering department too badly, and there were
mercifully few holes in the ranks that day. Yet even one is too many.
Campbell, a crusty Scot who loved his engines more than his wife, stood
at the head of the department. "Ais everything acceptable, sair?"
"Mr. Campbell, you continue to amaze me." Herrick turned his attention
from the assembled men to the well maintained engines behind them.
"Dinnae hard tae amaze an Englishman, sair!" The grin on his face was
wide as he shared an old joke with his captain.
"Careful, Mr. Campbell. I have Scottish lands as well. Besides, we evil
English do have all those dank dungeons to keep our prisoners in."
"Ai'll try tae remember it, sair."
"See that you do, Mr Campbell."
"Aye sair!"
Herrick finished his inspection of the engine room. Everything was in
order, exactly as Herrick expected. Campbell might be a tyrant and hard
on his men, but that got the job done. Yet he had a few questions for
the engineer that could not be asked in the midst of his men. "Mr. Campbell,
come with me please. Dismissed!"
The men quickly returned to their duties as Herrick and his chief engineer
left the engine room. They entered the passageway beyond and Herrick closed
the watertight hatch. While metal is a poor insulator of sound, the throbbing
of Benbow's turbines should suffice to drown out their conversation.
Just to be sure, Herrick quickly scanned the passageway for any other
crewmen. Seeing none, he closed the next hatch as a precaution against
disturbance. The questions he had for the engineer were ones that no other
soul should hear.
"Ewan, why are we still here?" I have an idea. Watching Ajax
and Conqueror die has fueled my suspicions. But I want it confirmed.
"Cap'n?" Campbell's confusion was obvious.
"Why is Benbow still afloat, when so many others are not?"
"Ach, is the bluidy turrets, sair! The bluidy damned things dinnae work
properly! The armor's nae thicker than your arm, sair! An' the magazine
doors dinnae work either! Is only by the grace of God that I'm a speakin
tae ye!"
Campbell's conclusion matched Herrick's own. "Go on."
"Is aisiar iff'n aye shae ye, sair."
"Very well, Ewan."
Campbell led the Captain forward. They quickly entered Benbow's
midships turret. The turret crew came to attention. Q turret on Benbow,
like that on Lion, was manned by the ship's marine detachment.
They stood alongside one of Benbow's monster 13.5 inch guns. They
were dressed in dark blue, with anti-flash hoods, long pants, and gloves.
While the men were miserable, they now knew the hood and gloves could
keep them alive. The men from the starboard 6" casemates had proved that.
When the fires rolled over them, their gear kept them safe. The poor men
who did not have flash protection had paid a terrible price. Even those
shielded by steel had been burned. The image of Dan Connor lying in a
sick-bay berth, his arms and hands burned, returned to Herrick's mind.
Campbell's Scottish brogue snapped him from the dreadful memory. "As ye
can see, sair, here are the bluidy doors tae the hoist. They are so flimsy,
ye could knock them open with ye taes."
Herrick clambered over to the shell handling doors, and gave them a good
kick. The doors creaked just a little, and moved a mere fraction of an
inch. Yet that mere sliver of space would be enough if a shell penetrated.
"Ye see, sair, these bluidy doors nae stand up to an Englishman. Imagine
a damned shell in here!"
"I see, Mr Campbell. Thank you."
"Mae pleasure, Cap'n." The engineer frowned. "Ah jest wish I dinnae need
tae show ye."
"Very well, Mr. Campbell. Return to your station."
My God! We did this to ourselves. All we needed was just a few more
inches of steel and some stronger hinges, and two thousand men would still
be alive. What must it have been like in the battlecruisers, with these
doors kept open? What did it feel like to burn alive, if only for just
a few seconds? Could that have been my ship, my men, or me lighting up
the sky? All because of an inch of steel?
0912, Sickbay.
Dan Connor slowly sat up. His vision was blurry. Sleep still clouded
his eyes. He shook his head, trying to clear the last tentacles of the
morphine from his mind. As he rose, he hit the bunk with the back of his
left hand. He quickly recoiled in pain. Dan raised his hand from beneath
the blanket. His palm looked fine. The back of his hand did not. It was
swathed in bright white gauze. Had the gauze not been there, the cruel
marks of a burn would have met his gaze.
Dan tried to check out the rest of his body. He found a bright bruise
on his chest and more gauze on the palm of his right hand. Beneath the
sheets, he could feel the bandages around his right ankle. Finally, he
found a nasty lump on his temple. His injuries began to throb as the drugs
wore off.
The occupant of the next bunk accidentally stretched out and jostled him.
Dan's hand was thrown into the metal support. Sharp, savage pain welled
up within him. He gritted his teeth against the sudden tide, yet it was
too much for his boyish self-control. A sharp cry escaped his battered
lips.
Surgeon-Commander Browne and one of the sailors detailed to assist him
ran to his bunk. Dan's face was contorted, not with agony, but with the
humiliation of wounded pride. Browne smiled. He is so much like my
own son. He looked like this when he fell out of that tree and I had to
set his leg. He was in great pain, yet he fought to hold it back. Much
like this boy here. Thankfully, Colin is much too young to serve. Much
too young.
"Another dose of morphine." Pain is not to be messed with, and it will
save his pride. That too is important to boys. At his age, Browne
knew that pride was not that important. Yet, why must he learn that
today as well?
As Browne drew the needle, Connor fought him. "No! Please no!" Please
don't make me sleep! I don't want to dream! Please! The dreams lay
just under the surface. While they were hazy in his memory, he remembered
enough. "Please no!" For a wounded boy, Dan put up a good fight. Yet he
was no match for the wily doctor or his burly assistant. No! Don't
make me sleep! As the drug coursed through him, Dan continued to fight
the mind-numbing effects of morphine. Yet, it was too much for his small
frame, and he slowly sunk into a dark sleep.
0943, Bridge
The sun shined over the horizon as Herrick entered the bridge. It was
a beautiful morning; a morning appropriate for one of the Royal Navy's
greatest holidays. One hundred and twenty one years ago, the Royal Navy
defeated the threat from across the sea. Admiral Howe hauled seven French
ships of the line into Spithead as prizes of war. It was the first major
victory in the last war for control of the seas. This First of June
is anything but glorious. There are no German prizes to be displayed to
the adoring public. This was no splendid victory to be celebrated with
salutes and champagne toasts. A cloudy day would be better suited. Today
is a day for funerals, not jubilation.
His eyes looked over the devastated remnants of the Grand Fleet. Twenty-four
dreadnoughts left yesterday. There are far fewer today. He did not
need his binoculars to see the damage. Instead, it was cruelly apparent.
He could see eleven ships to starboard. Added to his own and the two following
astern, that cane to a total of just fourteen. Fourteen, out of twenty-four
yesterday morning. This is the price we have paid for a little steel.
Nearly fifteen thousand good men. We offered up our men, our fathers,
brothers, and sons, to the altar of Victory. And our offering was rejected.
Such is the result.
His eyes were drawn, almost magically, to Iron Duke. Her upperworks
bore the scars of battle: Burned out turrets and wrecked superstructure.
He saw the ruins of B turret. She had that extra inch. Perhaps a fitter
had tightened the screws a little tighter. Perhaps the steel of the hinged
doors was just a little bit better. Perhaps she just got lucky. Herrick
continued to examine the flagship's wounds. As he came to the bridge,
he shuddered. So much has already been lost. What if that shell had
been just five feet further inboard? Would we have pulled anything out
of the crucible? Or would my wife and children be receiving a telegram,
one so similar to the many I have to send?
His hands held a telegram. It was not from the Admiralty; nor did it bring
sorrow in it's wake. Instead, it filled Herrick with relief. It was from
Captain Dave on Queen Elizabeth. This telegram told him that his
son was alive and well, not maimed or dead. The meeting with Dave before
they sailed, the desperate promise to keep Davin safe, similar promises
to other friends all flooded into his mind. So close. So very close.
Thank God he's safe.
2018, Bridge
The homecoming was not what Herrick had expected when he left. There
are no joyous crowds. There are no brass bands. The fleet, what remained
of it, steams to the solemn sound of silence. Benbow slowed as she
entered Scapa Flow. Soon, she would be passing Iron Duke. Jellicoe's
flag still flew from her mast. He still deserved a salute.
Jellicoe was not the only one still deserving a salute. The Grand Fleet
had not fired their salutes for the Glorious First of June. The somber
nature of the situation had not led itself to salutes. Instead, the Grand
Fleet kept the main rifles and the secondary guns loaded and the crews
at battle stations, should the Germans reappear. Benbow's division,
the last one in, were still at battle stations.
To starboard, Iron Duke was slowly making way toward her anchorage.
To port lay shallow water, then open beach, then the cliffs of the rocky
islands that formed the flow. The Royal Navy's gunnery range. It was time
for the salute.
Herrick looked at George Callaghan. Both men ached for the day of reckoning.
The day to pay the Germans back for every wound. The day to pay the Germans
for every day their wives worried about them. The day to pay for every
moment they spend away from their families. Unspoken words passed between
them. Both men knew what should be done.
Herrick shifted his gaze to his Admiral. The stress of the last two days
told on the Admiral's face. He knew that this would be the last time he
trod Benbow's deck at sea. He knew he would be lucky to get a sea-going
command at all. He ached to do something to make a difference.
The Admiral knew exactly what Herrick had in mind. Too many of the Royal
Navy's sailors felt as glum as he did. Too many commanders were ready
to throw out two hundred years of tradition after one day's battle. They
needed to see, as Herrick did, that the Royal Navy was still in this fight.
He nodded to his flag captain.
Herrick nodded back. He wrote a quick phrase on a piece of paper, then
passed it to the signals lieutenant. The lieutenant gave a quick took
of surprise then jumped to grab the appropriate flags. Most of the words
in the order were not present in the signalbooks. The lieutenant rushed
to complete them with the generic, alphanumeric flags instead. He managed
to find the necessary flags and complete the signal. As they watched the
rest of the division conforming to the orders, both Captain Lord Robert
Herrick and his Admiral were satisfied, for the first time in several
days.
2023, Scapa Flow, Scotland.
Scores of reporters were gathered on the quay. They were all looking
up the bay, waiting for the last division to moor. The Royal Navy Commander
babysitting them tapped his foot impatiently. Once the last of the
ships are in, I can run this rabble off and go home to my wife. Yet
he too wanted to see the victorious ships come in. He had one advantage
the reporters did not. He trained his glass out to sea and watched.
As he raised the glass to his eye, the ground shook. Ears quaked with
the sudden noise. The reporters dropped to the ground as windows shook
around them. None of them could see what the commander could. What every
sailor in the bay could see. Benbow, Bellerophon and Vanguard
steamed in line ahead. Large White Ensigns flew from the foremasts. Their
turrets were not trained as usual. Instead, they were trained to port.
Twenty-six main rifles boomed as they fired once. Twice. And again. They
continued until one hundred shells had been fired. From Benbow's
masts flew Captain Lord Robert Herrick's famous signal: All ships
to fire to port with main batteries. Damnation to the Germans, and remember
the Glorious First of June
###
by Rob Herrick
