The Dardanelles Conspiracy by Alan Bardos (best ereader for pc TXT) 📗

at. Swift had reported that the Turks had no shell, now Sir George had to bear the consequences of that error in every conceivable way. The only consolation he had was that Swift would also have to face the enemy’s wrath.

HMS Prince George, whose job it was to protect the Queen Elizabeth from the blasted phantom batteries, was making a determined effort. Smashing up the peninsula with everything she had, but as far as Sir George was concerned had not reduced the fire they were taking.

Sir George stood up, his lack of decorum attracting pitying glances from Roger Keyes, the firebrand he’d spoken to at the briefing, and the officers and ratings around him. Fortunately, Admiral de Robeck hadn't noticed his performance, glued to a periscope as he tracked the progress of the bombardment.

In the circumstances, Sir George thought he had done well to maintain any semblance of dignity. He was determined to do the task that Hamilton had given him. It was imperative that he won the commander’s confidence.

Sir George blinked, still dazzled by the gunfire, and pressed his binoculars against an observation slit in the conning towers armour. Looking out onto the Gallipoli peninsula and trying to search out anything he could report to Hamilton.

The peninsula looked like a vast craggy fortress, great bastions of rock hung over the water’s edge like battlements. He didn't envy the people who would have to attack it and took some comfort that it wouldn’t be him.

It was impossible to locate the enemy firing positions. Even if he knew what he was doing, he couldn't see anything through the billowing smoke and fire.

A great explosion suddenly lit up the Asian side of the narrows. Sir George forgot his nerves and felt exultant at the terrible power of his nation and the retribution it could unleash on its enemies.

‘That must have been an ammunition store,’ de Robeck said, turning from the periscope. ‘I think now might be the time to prevail upon the French, to press home the attack.’

***

Johnny held onto the side of the wheelhouse, as the trawler was bounced around by the Dardanelles current. In front of them, a line of battleships were firing on the Turkish positions.

The sound of the large calibre guns interspersed with the familiar whine of 5.9s was starting to unsettle Johnny. The sickening crash stirred up feelings that were better left suppressed and, in spite of what he’d been told by Enver Pasha, the Turks didn’t seem to be running short of shells.

‘Here, take this.’ Barringtons offered Johnny a hip flask.

Johnny knocked back a shot of sweet syrupy alcohol and grinned, Sloe gin. His mother made it every Christmas. ‘Thanks.’

‘Just pull yourself together, for goodness sake. We’ll be going in presently and I can’t have you falling apart in front of the men.’

‘Don’t worry, this isn’t my first show.’

A second line of ships began to pass through the front row, smoothly splitting up to engage either side of the Straits.

‘My God, but the French know what they're about,’ Barringtons gasped. ‘We’d better make ready. Once they’ve finished them off, it’ll be up to us to go in and clear the way.’

‘Aye, we'll be a front a them soon enough,’ the Skipper agreed. ‘Trawling through that bloody lot.'

‘How do you actually go about clearing the mines?’ Johnny asked Barringtons.

‘We pair with another trawler. Attaching a cable between us, which we pull along to cut the chains holding the mines in place, “sweeping” them to the surface,’ Barringtons said. ‘We then usually shoot at the mines ‘til they go bang or sink.’

‘That sounds simple enough,’ Johnny said.

Barringtons laughed, ‘Oh, it does, doesn’t it? Just try it when you're dragging a five-hundred-yard-long steel cable, while fighting the current and the Turks are blowing the hell out of you. We also have the added pleasure of the draft of the trawler being larger than the depth of the mines, so we can quite easily hit one!’

'We can actually hit the mines we are trying to clear?' Johnny asked in disbelief.

‘It happened a week or so ago,’ Barringtons said. 'But it's the guns that are more likely to get us. The whole area is completely covered by them.’

‘I been a fisherman all my life, now it’s me as the fish in a barrel.’ The Skipper laughed. 'Best get the sweeps strung out and see to the pairing.’

‘Very good, Skipper, Petty Officer Borden will take over the helm,’ Barringtons said.

Johnny watched the old man leave. ‘Shouldn’t the Skipper stay on the bridge?’

‘He doesn’t like sailing her this close to the shore.’ Barringtons gave a dry smile.

‘Doesn't like anything much,’ Borden added.

‘Yes, thank you for that, Borden and mind your course,’ Barringtons said and turned back to Johnny. ‘The Skipper prefers to act as a deckhand on operations. He’s quite content out there with his sweeps.’

The boat suddenly listed and began to bob up and down violently. Borden swore and fought to maintain control of the wheel. ‘Beg pardon, sir, there’s a bit of chop.’

‘Better ring down for some extra revs,’ Barringtons said.

Borden signalled to the engine room and the boat began to shudder with a grinding noise.

Barringtons turned to Johnny. ‘Don’t mind that, the propeller’s loose on the shaft. It’s taken a beating over the past few days.’

The grinding noise was suddenly drowned out by a series of loud bangs. Johnny looked at the horizon. The French ships had opened up on the shore batteries and were meeting considerable resistance.

‘The frogs are right in it,’ Borden muttered, struggling with the wheel. ‘Won't be long now.’

Johnny felt himself tremble. Rather than the disapproving look he was expecting from Barringtons, he got a sympathetic smile and another shot of sloe gin.

Chapter 36

Lieutenant Kurt Wirbelauer watched the escalating battle across the Straits with grim satisfaction.