0034, June 1, 1915, Sick Bay, HMS Benbow
Sub-Lieutenant Dan Connor slept in his sick bay berth. The bunk was built
for a bigger person, and his five foot two frame swam under the covers.
It was a good thing he had room to move, for Connor did not lie quietly.
Instead, he tossed and turned, his short frame fighting against the sheets.
He stood on the deck, the last of his party passed down through the
hatch. Between them, they carried a petty officer on a stretcher. He was
the last wounded man in the compartment. Connor had just completed his
report to Lieutenant-Commander Dalrymple. His body turned toward the hatch,
and Connor took his first step as the deck bucked beneath him.
Behind him, he heard the shrill sound of metal grinding on metal. He likened
it to the screech of the brake. Before he could complete his thought,
the sound changed. What had been a screech became the roar of a thousand
railroad locomotives. The air he was breathing suddenly vanished. He coughed
and coughed. Smoke began to waft it’s way toward him. Connor opened his
mouth to gulp. For a split second, no air came. Then it rushed past him,
filling his lungs to bursting. His mind rebelled at the sudden onslaught
of foreign sensations. His feet remained rooted to the deck.
Suddenly Connor was in motion again. His knees reported a quick surge
of pain as his legs buckled. Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and soon
he too was flying through the air. He sailed down the hatch, his mind
still struggling to make sense of it all. His leg banged on the edge of
the hatch and his chest hit the companionway as he fell. His head finally
struck Benbow’s teak deck and he collapsed.
Connor managed to keep back a scream as a wave of searing heat washed
over him. His wool uniform smoked and his flesh charred. He grabbed for
the railing but his hands didn’t answer. He curled into a small ball on
the deck, his system flooded with pain. He heard indistinct voices above
him and saw blurry figures running down the passageway toward him.
Benbow shuddered and lurched beneath him. Connor rolled to starboard
behind the companionway. Loose gear tumbled through the hatch above him.
His body lodged in a corner and he struck his head on the bulkhead. His
battered body lost it’s tenuous grip on consciousness and Dan Connor fell
into the darkness.
He awoke with a shout. His hands tangled in the oversize wool blanket
as he fought to sit up. He opened his eyes. Sick Bay. He lay in Benbow’s
sick bay, safe and secure. Just a dream. It’s just a dream. It’s not
real. It wasn’t real. Yet, somewhere deep down inside him, he knew
it was.
0056, Bridge
Captain Lord Robert Herrick stood on the starboard bridge wing. He held
a pair of binoculars to his eyes, scanning the seas. His stomach churned
from too much coffee and too little sleep. Yet he could not afford sleep.
Somewhere, out over the horizon, were the Germans. They waited to pounce
on his ship and the fragile men she carried homeward. They surprised
us once, gray ships surging out of the mist. They will not again.
Benbow bore the scars of battle. Five times the enemy had scored
hits. Five times her massive 30,380 tons shook with the impact like Benbow
was a small boat in a storm. Each time, a metal angle of death pierced
her side and laid her crew low. We didn’t even outshoot the enemy.
Out of our one hundred and sixth six shells, we got three hits. Three
measly hits. For that bounty we paid in blood? Fifty men are not worth
three hits. Yet we were one of the lucky ones.
His mind replayed the battle. All he could think of were the massive flashes
of light ahead. Those devastating golden funeral pyres rising from the
dark sea below. Each one marks the grave of a thousand men. Men like
my own. Men with parents, wives and children. Men with friends on my ship.
My own friends. All offered up to the goddess of victory, golden Nike.
Yet our offering was not enough. Those flashes signaled her displeasure,
her change of favor.
Herrick’s hand moved down as he withdrew the binoculars from his eyes
for a moment. His gaze shifted downward, to the deck far below his vantage-point.
His eyes were drawn to Benbow’s worst scar, the starboard casemates.
Here was the most painful of wounds. The fire was out; the dead and wounded
removed. Yet the might-have-beens flooded his mind.
What would have happened if that shell had been twenty feet further
aft? Would I have to tell Charlotte and Alan what I have to tell too many?
Would it be Dan’s body covered with a sheet, instead of some other boy?
What about my other sons? Herrick returned the glass to his eyes.
He scanned the sea again. Yet it was not ghostly gray ships that plagued
him. Instead he looked for a familiar silhouette. One that carried his
eldest son into battle. And, please God, is carrying him home again.
Please God. Emotions Herrick had held tightly in check flooded back.
He had lived one awful moment without one boy, a moment without a child
he held as dear as his own flesh and blood. Would that moment come again?
Would Davin be part of Nike’s sacrifice? Please God, keep him safe.
Keep all the boys safe. Please.
Queen Elizabeth was still alive; Herrick knew that. Duty and paternal
worry warred within him. He forced himself to return the binoculars to
the navy blue beyond. He scanned the darkness, looking for Nike’s new
golden chariot. Enjoy her while she stays with you. Can you bear her
price? Does she call for your sons, German? Will she take them from you,
as she tried with mine?
A soft word broke the spell. Herrick turned his eyes from the great blackness
and back inboard. In the charthouse stood George Callaghan. He too bore
the marks of battle. The blood of the fallen stained his uniform. His
hair held soot from burned decks. His nostrils knew the sickly sweet smell
of death. He too bore the crushing mental costs.
“Sir.” Get some rest. I’ll watch for a while.
Herrick shook off the maudlin train of thought. “Very well, George. You
have the conn.” He passed Callaghan and entered the darkened recesses
of the bridge on way to his sea cabin. Sleep. Perchance to dream. I
hope not. The dead troubled him as surely as they did young Connor
far below. Is it truly worth it?
###
by Rob Herrick
