Letterstime: Ein Geleitzug

For LT Jenkins, the prospect of a nail-biting sprint up to Manhatten had not been a welcome one. In his view, the aide's job included introducing options to his principal that the graying, senior salt might not recognize existed. He had no doubt that Vice-Admiral Stennis was a great man and a warrior, but he was an OLD warrior. The young lieutenant felt that Stennis was more comfortable with topsails than wireless sets and just did not understand the implications of modern technology.

Actually, any inclination Jenkins might have had of remaining silent and letting things proceed "naturally" had been ended by the gusto with which CDR Atanacio received the Admiral's announcement of the need for speed. The weather-browned Commander had grinned, in Jenkins' opinion, all too broadly as he began barking commands, his even white teeth a frighteningly feral contrast with his tanned features.

"Sir," he had begun quietly, as Commander Atanacio was off gleefully working his Destroyer up to Flank. "Why wait until Mina gets back?"

He had asked it almost rhetorically, delicately hinting that another option existed. Stennis had jumped on it with a quickness Jenkins had not expected from a man of such advanced age.

Now, he had to hope - pray, actually - that this worked!

----11:15 PM, marina

Lannon smacked his lips appreciatively.

"Miz Beulah, as always, your fried chicken was well worth coming ashore for."

At the clubhouse, Lannon had finished his call earlier, gotten a shower, and gone looking for a bite to eat. Luck had been with him, as it had been all day. It might have seemed odd to some people that a marina would serve much in the way of non-seafood items, but those would be folk who had not tasted Miz Beulah's chicken. It also had the merit of keeping well, and management wisely let her cook all she wanted. Tonight, she had used her batter that left the pieces crisply crusted with tiny flakes of peanuts, and he had gotten the last of what had been a formidable batch.

"You's welcome, Mr. Lannon," answered the dark complexioned, strongly built cook. "Sorry no biscuits left for you."

"There're all gone before eight," he replied, with a broad smile. "Always are!"

Indeed, thought Lannon, if the folk here ever got to eat their fill of Miz Beulah's biscuits, half the boats would sink at their moorings. Little slivers of nut meats were all that now remained of the plate of cold chicken. There had been several pieces, since Miz Beulah had expected Nik as well, but Lannon had managed them quite fine without him. Indeed, he felt it only fair. After all, he had had to bring back the Princess alone, and face Auntie Terror alone - it was only proper and fitting that he had gotten to face the rest of the fried chicken the same way! He nodded to himself that there was still some justice in the world as he used his moistened fingertips to get the last of the toasted nuts. He slipped a dollar bill into the tip box, drained the last of his iced tea, and waddled out the door.

He was most of the way back when he first heard it. He stopped a few steps out on the planking that ran from the shore out to the Princess. It was a boat and he did not recognize the engine. He walked the rest of the way out to the end. There. A bright light was playing around in the chop as this very late arrival inched past the last breakwater. As he watched, it found the end of the pier just one over from where he stood and stayed on it, guiding the approach.

It wasn't until the boat got close enough to catch some of its own reflected beam that he saw that it was a USN launch of some sort. It eased up on the far side of the next pier and sailors leapt off nimbly to tie up. But what was a Navy boat doing here? He looked out to sea. There might be something right ....

"Sir? Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Sir, can you tell me where the nearest phone is?" Lannon recognized the man as a petty officer first class.

"Sure, right up that path, just inside the clubhouse on the right."

The man thanked him, spoke to a sailor beside him, and then turned his back to Lannon to address the boat. The younger man went quickly up the path where Lannon had pointed.

"Admiral," the PO1 began, but Lannon missed the rest. He had pivoted sharply for his boat as he suddenly realized that he was just a very few words away from missing very many hours sleep. It was not until he had boarded the Princess that he looked back, and even then he did so from a sheltered vantage. He heard as much as saw the tall figure of a senior officer, presumably the admiral, tromping his way up the other pier, escorted by two shorter officers. Their shoes began an irregular staccato on the boards that quickly transformed into a metronome as, out of long habit, they fell into step. Lannon smiled at the change, then yawned hugely as his innards reacted happily to Miz Beulah's largesse. He stretched contentedly and made for his bunk.

---- 11:30 PM, marina clubhouse

Jenkins had not relaxed until he heard Stennis talking to Admiral Benson. Of course, there were marinas located near the channel mouth. Of course, the upscale ones would have lights and phones. Of course, a wireless could alert Washington and arrange a telephone call. Of course, it was lots faster than riding that 1000 ton bronco all the way up that crowded channel with that Cowboy Commander whooping in the saddle!

But, until the call went through ... !

Now, wallowing in an overstuffed chair, he felt weak-kneed and almost stupefied in reaction. What if there'd been no phone? Or it'd been broken? When was he going to learn to keep his mouth shut? He sighed. Something smelled good, he realized after a few moments. He flared open his nostrils to better draw in the scent. So good that he found himself salivating. He was looking around surreptitiously for the source of the aroma when his attention was snapped back to the phone conversation at the use of a new title.

"Yes, Mr. Secretary," Stennis had said.

Oh, hellfire and damnation, thought Jenkins. Didn't Daniels have a home to go to?

Commander Trimm was licking his lips as he sat by the Vice-Admiral. Partly, it was nervousness - he had hardly expected this day to end with him eavesdropping on a conversation between the Commander Atlantic Fleet, the Chief of Naval Operations, and the Secretary of the Navy! - but mostly it was the same cause as was affecting the young lieutenant across the room. He swallowed and tried to keep his attention on the phone dialogue, but he was tired and a bit distracted. And so, he nearly jumped out of his skin when Stennis ....

"Commander Trimm agrees with you, Mr. Secretary. And he's got some evidence. No matter what their admiral said, they're riding a bit high.

"Yes, exactly. That's precisely what I mean. The problem, Mr. Secretary, is, well, he served me Gunpowder Tea. Fortnum's, in fact. Yes, Fortnum's. Now, there's only one way .... Yes, Admiral, that was my take as well.

"Mr. Secretary," Stennis was clearly trying to be patient. Jenkins winced at the tone, drawing a raised eyebrow from Trimm, who did not really know the vice-admiral. "He was sending me a signal - clear as day. There may be more of them, further out - no way to know, but those other three went somewhere. But what he was telling me, Mr. Secretary, is this. They've taken prizes, probably got coal from them, and they can take as many more as they need - there's no one to stop them as long as they stay outside the Three Mile Limit.

"No, sir. That's a negative. Not us."

Stennis audibly drew in a breath. Both of the officer spectators winced this time.

"I don't believe you can declare war on Germany, Mr. Secretary. No, I am not being impertinent. I went out and met them, at your orders, sir, and good ones they were, I admit that to you here and now. But I tell you, there's no bluffing this man, this Admiral Hanzik. We're either going to have to comply with The Hague, that Roosevelt signed and Congress ratified, renounce it entirely, or just declare war and be done with it. I will carry out your orders, Mr. Secretary, fully and faithfully, and those of Admiral Benson; but just don't go thinking bluffing will get us anywhere, because it won't. You can take my word for it. I can sink him, but I can't bluff him.

"The British? Maybe the Brits CAN send over a fleet - no, of course they can - but they've got all the rest of the Germans right on their doorstep and, well, you've seen the Pratt Report. In any case, whatever they finally scrape up is probably something like a week away from here."

---- 11:30 PM, flagbridge of New York, stopped

"Admiral," reported Alton's aide, "Wyoming reports that all are aboard."

"Very well. Go check on the Germans, would you?"

"Aye, aye, sir."

After a few minutes, another report came in.

"Sir, from Captain West. All wounded secured. The doc's making rounds, and so are his mates."

"Very well. Have the Germans recovered all their small boats?"

"All except Moltke's, sir. We saw one go up her starboard winch, but we can't see what's going on to port. According to Chief Larson, the far side's been out of sight for some time."

What Larson had actually said was that by now the Germans could be hiding a herd of talking cows over there, but the aide chose not to report that.

"Inform Captain West that I intend to get underway at midnight ...."

---- 11:45 PM, marina clubhouse

Admiral Stennis had listened for a while, presumably to conversation taking place on the other end between Benson and Daniels. And whoever else might be there.

"Yes, sir," Stennis said, obviously in answer to a specific question. "The Germans tried to float the number 1000 past me, but Commander Trimm estimated no more than 800. They're short on water, though. Hanzik claimed they'd gone on water rationing.

"No, Mr. Secretary. I don't know what we can do with that. It's just something we need to consider.

"Sir, their prisoners are out on Moltke's main deck. If the Germans start to run out of water, who do you think will go without first? Yes, sir. It could be 1000. Even more, if the other ships are holding others.

"Oh, yes, they were turning to us about 50 of the most seriously wounded when I left and, as I said earlier, maybe a dozen of their own.

"No, sir. I don't know what we're supposed to do with them. The Hague is silent on this point, best I can recall. I recommend State take a look at it but, Mr. Secretary, I could hardly refuse them, now, could I? And, sir, the first real problem, actually that's problemS with an ‘S', are those two British AMCs than fled from the battle and into our custody.

"Yes, sir. The ones that Admiral Martin reported moored at the Naval Station this afternoon. The problem? The problem is that The Hague is QUITE clear on them. And the British are not going to like it. Not one tittle."

Stennis sighed lightly, or perhaps suppressed a yawn. He shifted the phone to his right ear then, with a frown, quickly shifted it back. Trimm recalled then the words Stennis had spoken to the young Ensign. Jones, that was his name. The Commander wondered how the lad was doing.

---- 11:50 PM, New York, stopped

"More water?" The fresh pitcher in the sailor's hands was the sixth, if Jones had it right. Where were they were putting it, he wondered?

"Ja, er, yes, thank you," Lionel answered.

Thankfully, it had not been necessary to use the wardroom, since Wyoming had taken more than half of the British. Lionel did not care, as they were in some sort of berthing area near the sick bay and it was more than adequate. It did not appear to have been in use, and he wondered if the Americans were having trouble manning their warships. Yet, he considered, as he poured another glass for one of his feverish mates, this was their flagship. Would they not crew it first?

"Were you at the battle?" Jones asked, hesitantly. "I mean, that big one that I read about earlier this month."

"Yes. Yes, I was there. My ship was Seydlitz. In stern turrets, was my station."

"What did you do?"

"Mostly I checked that a hatch was shut."

Jones wrinkled his brow. That was obviously some sort of error in translation. He tried again.

"I mean, did you see any action? Your ship?"

"Ah, ‘action,' I did not see much but we fired our guns all day and were fired at, also, all the hours. We shooted most of our shells that day. We had about one in three left, I think."

"Only a third of your ammo left?!"

"That was more than the previous battle. All were used in that one."

"Omigod! Were you hit? Your ship, I mean?"

"One, 10.5 centimeter, I think. It was worse in the January battle. But I was not assigned to her then - many of us came aboard her afterwards. Replacements, you see. All at my station had perished."

Jones flinched at that and decided to shift the subject slightly.

" ‘Seydlitz,' she's a battlecruiser, isn't she? Like Moltke and von der Tann over there?"

" ‘Schlachtkreuzer.' Yes, the British called them that, when they had them."

Jones shook his head. This translation duty was hard.

---- 11:50 PM, marina clubhouse

"Mr. Secretary, we've got a day. No more. The papers are sure to get wind of this sometime tomorrow. It might be the 20th, if we're lucky, but I wouldn't count on it. More likely there'll be something about it in the afternoon editions tomorrow.

"No, there's no avoiding it. Those two shell-holed Brits steamed right into New York harbor this afternoon, for Chrissake! The reporters won't have known what to make of them at first - and Admiral Martin will have held them off - but we can't expect that to buy more than a day. The papers were full of the sea battle expected tonight, around now, in fact. That was back when everyone thought Strassburg was going to slip out at dusk and make a run for it. They'll know by now when she really left and they'll be looking for the story, sure as hell. It'll probably take them all day tomorrow, but they'll get it. Somehow. It's just too big."

Stennis listened some more. Fought off another yawn.

"Wait one, Admiral," Stennis said, after a couple minutes. He cupped the phone. "Either of you know the name of this place?"

Trimm did and volunteered it to Stennis, who spoke it into the phone.

"Thank you, Admiral. I've still got Mina standing by, but I'll consider it. Good night."

Stennis hung up the phone, rubbed his face, and suddenly looked like an old man. Then he looked up, and was an admiral again.

"It seems that Admiral Benson has a nephew with a boat at a marina around here, and it might be this one. If so, and if he's here, and if he has his car with him, I could probably commandeer it. That's too many ‘if's for me. It's been a long day, gentlemen. Let us be on our way."

---- 11:59 PM (5:59 AM local), London

The long day was just ending for the Americans. A longer day was just beginning for the British. This was the first meeting, not counting those of the various duty sections during the pre-dawn hours, and would not be the last.

"Grand Fleet?" The quiet question was put to the last of the exiting aides at the coffee urn as the principals finished finding their seats.

"I left word, sir, and spoke with his Flag Lieutenant. An hour, I'd hazard, but no more."

The questioner nodded, and aide closed the door behind him.

The whole matter was being treated like it was right out of the Official Secrets Act. (NOTE) Attendance had been rigidly restricted and even the subject was not mentioned before the great men had seen the door shut fully behind them. Nonetheless, the aides who were now approaching the hard oak benches outside the room in which the ministers and admirals were closeting themselves were discussing it all quite openly even before they sat. After all, who did their lordships think they were going to keep it secret from, the Germans?

"Maybe Patey got away, but his wireless got hit."

One minister was voicing those exact same words on the other side of the door.

"That'd do for Sydney," another replied, "but what ‘bout Melbourne, Berwick, and the others? D'ya think they all lost their wireless at the same time?"

"Yeah, like a bloody plague, or something," another jeered, though he had little heart for it. It was a plague they were facing: a plague of Germans.

The answer had been more decorous within.

"Maybe one or more got away," said another aide, after a moment, "but not Sir George."

"No?"

"Not on your life! He'd not have left the others, those converted liners, to face Hun battlecruisers alone. He just wouldn't."

"Right enough, that." "Yes." "That's Patey, all right."

Those inside took longer to reach a similar conclusion. In particular, the fact that two AMCs were known to have gotten to safety, made the fate of the other five or six all the more certain. The report from the embassy in America was that staff had left to attempt to contact those on the ships but there'd been no further report yet.

First among those within, Edward Carson, First Lord of the Admiralty, grimaced to himself first at the thought of having to tell Prime Minister Balfour that the navy had met failure, again, so soon after he had taken the office. The trip to 10 Downing that he would need to make after this would not be a pleasant one. A deeper concern, though, was the thought of having to inform His Majesty of this fresh reversal. One of the last things Sir Winston had related to Carson was how terrible his own meeting with the Crown had been, and how sensitive His Majesty had been to the loss of life, and flag officers. Churchill had called it the absolute nadir of his career and had nearly wept at the memory of it. Now, unless this was some kind of bloody balls-up mistake, he facing having to tell His Majesty that Vice-Admiral Patey was lost, and another 3,000 men with him. He was not sure he could face him. How had Churchill found the srtrength?

"Sir, there's no mention of Imperator, or the other liner ...."

"Kaiser Wilhelm II," inserted another, nodding his head in agreement. "And nothing about Strassburg, if that's who she was - the reports are just not conclusive."

"So?" Carson put in, snapping out of it.

"Sir, I think we must presume that the Americans were competent enough to identify all the German ships they could see."

"Ah, they've gone then? But where? Can we really be certain that the Americans got them all? Or that Bermuda got all of the message?"

"Probably."

Carson reacted to that. He could hardly take "probably" to 10 Downing!

"Milord, it does fit with what the embassy reported. Precisely, in fact."

That was true, but Carson wanted more. He would greatly prefer to be quite sure before he went calling on Lord Balfour to report that, once again ....

"Milord, it's just midnight there now. It could be half the day before there's more."

"Damn!"

That much they could all agree with, inside the room and out.

AUTHOR's NOTE

The Official Secrets Act of 1911 was drafted as a post-colonial response to the growing power of Germany and the fear that the country was being flooded by foreign agents. Its central tenets of lifetime loyalty to the British state and the protection of official secrets regardless of their nature, remained largely unquestioned during two world wars and much of the cold war that followed. (Excerpt from a recent story in the Guardian.)

Edited by: jim 1 at: 8/22/02 10:17:12 am

by Jim