Letterstime - Ein Geleitzug: Homeward Bound? Part XXVII
(Confusion At Sea)
July 7, 1915
---- HMS Southampton, course 035, speed 25 knots
With his feet set wide and his uniform whipping in
the wind, Commodore Nott struck a heroic pose out on the port wingbridge, or at
least he supposed he did. In any case,
no one was going to dispute him on the point.
If the Huns had any thoughts of striking near Aberdeen this day, they
should soon be cresting the horizon. In
fact, a delicate frown had begun to form behind his upraised binoculars, since
he’d been anticipating that precise development since before dawn. Nothing was in sight, not even a smoke
plume. The sea stubbornly remained most
utterly empty.
Within the bridgehouse, Dedmon was mundanely
conferring with the Signals Officer at the chart table. The scraps of paper on his clipboard
persisted in making bids to escape as the 25-knot slipstream kept air currents
brisk and ever-changing even in there.
The Navigator stood on his other side, and all three watched the bosun
update the map to reflect recent wireless reports.
Nott lowered his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his
remarkably prominent proboscis. His legs
were tired and his right elbow still ached.
The Germans had all gone home, it seemed.
---- HMS Dublin, 5000 yards east of HMS Southampton
LCDR Phonone scanned the horizon, just as his
lookouts did. He was out on the
starboard bridgewing, partly because Southampton was quartering to port. Mostly, though, it was because he remained
quite uncomfortable out on the port side even though the men had scrubbed off
the stain there. At least he thought
they had; he hadn’t looked. Well, not
closely.
“Sir,” the voice belonged to the man who was now the
First Officer, his low tone carefully neutral and inaudible to anyone more than
a pace away. “Do you know what we’re
supposed to be looking for?” The
question was worded just as carefully, though Phonone understood the unstated
parts just the same.
The other’s concern was hardly without bases, Phonone
reflected. He, the man’s new commanding
officer, was virtually an unknown and the officer himself had not even been on
the bridge during their mutual “promotion” a few hours ago. Their force had been four, but had become two
and then their two had charged off almost directly away from an enemy who had
been shooting at them and all to get here … where there was nothing.
“Not precisely, Number One,” Phonone replied, using
the other’s acting title as a reminder of its own. “The signal to the Commodore came directly
from Warspite, along with our destination.”
Dublin’s new CO gestured at the waves, the empty waves. “And according to the plot, we’re at the
ordered spot. As for the rest, we just
keep station on Southampton. I know for
a fact that he has their lordships’ full confidence.”
“Yes,” the other nodded, brow clearing somewhat. “He’s earned that, right enough.”
“And ours, too,” Phonone added stoutly.
“Aye, sir.”
But the horizon remained unmarked by hull or plume.
---- HMS Birmingham, course 100, speed 25.2 knots
Captain Peter David Danton Dalrymple stood with easy
confidence on his bridge, his glasses tracking his prey despite the waves. His demeanor was more positive than Nott’s
because, unlike his Commodore to the north, he had a plume in sight. In fact, he’d been trying to close with it
since dawn. The ship, whoever she was,
had apparently turned tail and run the moment he’d pointed his bows at her. They were overhauling her, but a stern chase
is a long chase with only a three knot advantage.
“Sir, lookouts report contact is in company.”
What?
Dalyrimple had not expected this.
The only vessels that would not have been spotted earlier would be ....
“Torpedoboats.
Current count is three.”
“Very well.”
Matters had just become complicated.
The other’s consorts could break contact whenever they should so
choose. Or they could abandon her to her
fate. But what if they turned and
fought?
Dalrymple frowned in concentration. Last October, Undaunted had had four L Class
with her when she’d sunk four German TBs.
Here, Dalrymple had another cruiser instead of four destroyers of his
own but one of the four enemy was herself a cruiser, albeit an apparently older
and slower one. Undaunted’s consorts had
been faster than the enemy, preventing their escape, and so they had forced to
fight despite superior RN firepower and been sunk without loss.
Damn! If the
enemy reversed course all together, the TBs would be able to close because he’d
lose way turning himself to evade. He’d
have two shooters but four targets, with one providing supporting fire while
the others ....
“Chief! Range
to target. And count update on torpedo
craft!”
“Sir, 18,000 yards, and the current count is still
three, plus the cruiser.”
“Identification on cruiser?”
“No, sir.”
Their tracks were offset by no more than a couple hundred yards, making
the other’s aspect almost directly stern-on.
It was a smaller older cruiser, though; that was much was apparent. Was she their adversary from last night? In the near-dark, his lookouts’ guess had
been Bremen class, but had expressed some reservations. Still, she had been in sight for a time now,
and he was moderately surprised that his men had not been able to positively
her yet. He mentally shrugged and went
back to his deliberations.
The Falklands battle had included several extended
stern chase engagements with German light cruisers. In each case, the Huns had outranged their
pursuers by one or two thousand yards and had shot well. However, their 4.1-inch guns had made little
impression, while the RN 6-inchers had been quite effective once they’d gotten
into range.
---- Warspite, course 180, speed 15 knots
Admiral DeRobeck had ordered the turn to the south a
quarter-hour ago, once it had become amply clear that there was no immediate
threat to the northern coast. The flags
for 20 knots had gone up just minutes ago.
He had Commodore Nott out on the distant wing, so there was no
possibility that the Germans were lurking a few score miles beyond the
visibility of his screen. He’d keep him
out there for a bit, just in case.
“All ships have acknowledged, sir,” Captain Swafford
relayed.
“Very well.
Execute.”
DeRobeck looked again at the map, together with the
latest wireless from Commander - Harwich Force.
Commodore Tyrwhitt had been unable to sight whatever ships may have been
involved in the raid of Withernsea - assuming there really HAD been a raid, and
DeRobeck admitted to some lingering doubt on that point no matter what. Tyrwhitt had cast his net fairly wide, so
whatever ship had been involved had to have been fast or ... what? The Room 40 staff had not been particularly
helpful this day.
“Captain Swafford?”
“Sir?”
“If we assume this raid was real.” And not some bizarre outbreak of collective
insanity, he did not add. “You thoughts
on how the landing force have escaped detection?”
“It could simply be that they came ashore normally –
say off smaller craft like torpedoboats – and that no one has reported it yet
in all the excitement. But, sir, there
is another possibility. But it’s just
that.”
“Understood.
Continue.”
“U-boats, sir.
It would explain the surprise, easily enough. The problem I see with it is that the
reported raider count’s too high. Best I
think could be managed, sending in detachments on small boats, might be ten or
a dozen per sub.”
The excited townsfolk had claimed a hundred or more.
DeRobeck nodded, nonetheless. Civilians awakened at dawn by cannon and fire
might well see a full score of Huns for each real one.
Was that what all this was about, then? Were the Germans trying for some sort of
death of a thousand cuts? A patrol AMC
here, a shore raid by a couple dozen there?
DeRobeck’s instinctive thought was to reject this. The Kaiserliche Marine had sortied their
fleet. Still, where WERE they?
The battlecruisers could be anywhere, but he had a
feeling that the HSF Main Body remained well to his south.
“Answering 20 knots, sir.”
“Very well.”
---- HMS Birmingham, course 100, speed 25.2 knots
Captain P. D. D. Dalrymple reached a decision just as
the range to the trail TB dropped to 17,000 yards.
“Signals, hoist: ‘Maneuver independently’.” He would execute when the Germans turned to
fight. That would allow them to split
their fire and evade any torpedoes more readily.
“Sir, Nottingham has acknowledged.”
“Sir, the enemy torpedo boats ….”
Just in time, it would appear! Dalrymple had his mouth open to give the
order when he saw that the enemy craft were not coming about at all. Instead, the three faster light ships had
increased speed and were moving up along one beam of their leader, then
slightly ahead. This would delay matters
hardly more than a couple handful of minutes.
Smoke? They were on the cruiser’s
lee side. An odd choice if they were
going to try to something of that sort.
“Range to the cruiser?”
“17,500 yards, sir.
Perhaps a bit less.”
Had the German commander ordered his TBs to save
themselves? What would he, Dalrymple, do
with two larger, faster, far better gunned cruisers running down
Birmingham? This was hardly an idle
question, given that there were two German battlecruisers loose somewhere. Was that it?!
He opened his mouth even as he turned to anxiously scan the horizon, having
recognized that he’d let himself get mesmerized by the target fleeing ahead.
“Lookout Chief!
Other contacts?”
Was it that a few minutes could make a
difference? This wasn’t the Pacific, but
a great many miles of open water remained ....
“No other contacts .... Sir, the enemy has opened fire!”
What?
“Range to target?”
“16,000 yards, sir.”
“Possibly a bit more, sir,” added the grizzled bosun at his side.
Dalymple could only wait as his thoughts raced. The enemy outranged him, yes, but not by that
much. His could reach 13,500 yards,
maybe a bit more if he could catch the uproll.
The Falklands post-battle review had stated that the fleeing cruisers
had shot perhaps 1,000 yards further.
The German cruiser must be desperate.
Or was it another distraction?
“Damn!” The
splash just two hundred yards ahead came as a distinct and palpable shock. The range estimate must be wrong! Damn!
The next one was even closer.
This was no fluke!