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

Good old Dolly was giving it to the Allied fleet now they had finally come into range. The shore batteries had the second line of enemy ships caught in a terrific crossfire. The water around them rose and fell in huge brown columns of froth, the occasional red spark flew off the ships from a shell strike and Kurt felt pride at the defending gunner’s ability to maintain accuracy, despite the battering they were taking.

The Allied fleet was returning fire with equal violence, directing a fierce bombardment at the forts, tearing up great swathes of earth and rock. Kurt had a front row seat from his observation post. The whole valley surrounding the Straits had become a rippling mass of explosions.

He zeroed in his range finder searching for targets. The scrappy fishing trawlers the British used as minesweepers were milling around aimlessly, tossed about on the waves and posed no threat.

He turned to the Queen Elizabeth blasting away at the forts protecting the narrows. He’d been issued with recognition charts, but he didn’t need one to identify that beast. Kurt held his field telephone close and called out a list of coordinates to his primary battery of 150mm howitzers, secreted in the valley behind him.

His sergeant reported that the battery was ready to fire and Kurt connected to his secondary battery, who had mocked up a set of guns out of old drainage pipes. Every time the primary battery fired the secondary exploded charges of gunpowder, releasing large clouds of black smoke.

So far the little trick had served them well, drawing the worst of the Allied fire away from the main battery. Kurt gave the order to fire and a stream of shells flew over the ridge behind him, arching down towards the Queen Elizabeth. Kurt grunted with satisfaction as they straddled the enemy ship.

Behind him he could hear the shouts of his gun crews struggling to reload. Half-starved and threadbare, the Turkish gunners hadn’t stopped firing since the engagement began. The rhythmic chant of their prayers rose above the din of battle. They were fighting with every fibre of their being to deny the invaders this precious strip of water.

The Prince George stationed at the edge of the first line of dreadnoughts fired at them. Kurt uttered a silent prayer of his own as the shells came towards him. He hadn't prayed since he'd left Marburg and thought of his mother and father going to Sunday service at the cathedral.

The British shells landed harmlessly behind him. The Royal Navy were using old ships, with worn out and increasingly inaccurate guns. Their fire rarely landed near either of the batteries and was yet to put any of the drainage pipes out of action. If they did manage to locate the real battery, the guns were simply moved with oxen. Kurt let out his breath and gave a fresh firing solution for the Queen Elizabeth. They needed to keep her distracted.

***

As relieved as Sir George Smyth was to see the French being sent forward to take up the vanguard from his line of ships, it didn’t stop the hidden batteries from tormenting him. Salvos of four straddled the ship, tossing up filthy great columns of shrapnel that rained down on the conning tower with a bowel clenching clank.

Sir George spluttered as something hit the funnel behind him, blowing a cloud of soot into the conning tower. He began to cough up black phlegm and, feeling like a miner, tried to keep focused. Sir George expected that Hamilton would require as much detail as possible when he reported back to him. The ships in his line were continuing to fire at the same targets, over the French ships. It was impossible for him to determine if they were actually achieving anything, other than creating a horrific fireworks display. Spotter planes had been sent over the targets, but their reports were somewhat sporadic and apparently limited by their signalling equipment.

‘Good God, it’s Gaulois. She’s been hit,’ de Robeck said in dismay. The officers on deck swung round to watch as the French pre-dreadnought battleship limped out of line to the rear, listing heavily.

De Robeck was physically shaken by the loss of a ship to his command. The rest of the French ships fought on regardless, keeping up an intense exchange of fire with the shore batteries.

'I fancy the muzzle flashes from the shore are dying down, sir,' Keyes said. 'They'll soon be silenced.'

‘Inflexible is signalling,’ one of the ratings shouted. 'They're asking permission to leave the line. She’s received several hits from the field batteries and needs to carry out urgent repairs.’

‘Hell, tell her to get a move on,’ de Robeck shouted.

‘I think the Turks are beaten, Admiral,' Keys announced, lowering his binoculars.

‘I agree,’ De Robeck said regaining his composure. 'Bring up line C, the French have done their bit. It's time for fresh gun crews. If things carry on like this, we might call in the sweepers.'

Despite the apparent success of the bombardment, it was obvious to Sir George that the damage his ships had taken was praying on de Robeck’s mind.

***

Breitner tried to breathe as the Queen Elizabeth's massive 15-inch shells exploded in thick mushrooms of dust and steel.

The air was stifling, but the gunners were working like demons as they cleared debris off the guns and returned fire. Breitner admired their discipline and good order. The gunners nearest to him were wrestling a red-headed armour-piercing shell into the breach of their gun.

Dolly called out a bearing and Breitner recognised the target by its rounded hull. A French pre-dreadnought called the Bouvet. He relayed Dolly’s instructions to the gun crew through a speaking-trumpet, the telephone lines had long since been cut, and the gun fired. He watched with satisfaction as a red flash erupted from the impact of the shell and engulfed the bow of the Bouvet in