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The Bombardment of Smyrna Forts

The Achates arrived at Gibraltar on the fourth morning out from Spithead, and went alongside the South Mole to coal, just as the warm Mediterranean sun rose above the top of the grand old rock.

The gun-room officers—-everybody, in fact—were in the highest spirits. It was grand to have left behind the dreary, cold English winter, and it was grander still to be on the way to the Dardanelles. Best of all, they could now go to sea without worrying about submarines and mines.

Two days from Gibraltar the daily wireless telegram from England told them that the forts at the entrance to the Dardanelles had been silenced, and that landing-parties were being sent ashore to demolish them.

"Why couldn't they have waited? We shall be too late; we shall miss all the fun," they cried sadly, down in the gun-room; "just come in for the tail end of everything; they'll be up at Constantinople by the time we get there; what sickening rot!"

"If you'd seen as much fighting as I have," Uncle Podger said solemnly—he'd only been a year in the Service, and seen none—"you'd——"

But he wasn't allowed to finish. They shouted:

"Dogs of war! Out, Accountant Branch!" and rolled him and the China Doll on the deck until Barnes banged the trap-door with the porridge-spoon to let them know that breakfast was ready.

At Malta there was another hurried coaling.

It was here they heard that the Bacchante, their chummy ship—a sister ship—the ship which had been next to them in the North Sea patrol—had already passed through Malta bound for the Dardanelles.

It was, of course, the Pimple who heard this first, and who climbed down into a coal lighter alongside to tell the Sub. The Sub, black and grimy, grinned. "We'll get a chance to knock spots out of them at 'soccer', somewhere or other," he said, joyfully rubbing some of the coal-dust on his sleeve over the Pimple's excited and fairly clean face.

"I hope they haven't found out about the sea-gulls," the Pimple said; but the Sub hadn't any more time to talk to him.

The sea-gull incident was rather a sore point with the Bacchante gun-room.

That ship had not yet fired a gun; the Achates had, and the Bacchante snotties were jealous and didn't believe it. All they could find out was that their rival's after 9.2-inch gun had fired at a submarine early one morning.

"What happened?" they would ask. "Did you hit it?"

"Well, we didn't see it again," the Achates gun-room would answer. "We must have hit it."

They always forgot to mention that this submarine had turned out to be a dozen or more sea-gulls sitting close together; and they had told the story so often—of course leaving out the sea-gull part—that they very much hoped that their chummy ship would never get hold of the proper yarn. If once they knew, their legs would be pulled unmercifully.

It would not have mattered so much if one of the Lieutenants or the Commander had made the mistake; but the worst of it was that the Sub had been on watch at the time, so the snotties, the China Doll, and Uncle Podger would have perjured themselves for ever, rather than give away the secret.

At Malta a passenger came on board, a tortoise about eight inches long. Who brought him no one knew, but in a day or two old Fletcher the stoker had adopted him as his own. The old man loved to sit on the boat deck by the hour in the sun, with "Kaiser Bill"—as the men called the tortoise—and feed the ungainly wrinkled brute with bits of cabbage.

Malta was left behind; the weather grew hot; white trousers were ordered to be worn, and were scarce—no one had expected to be sent to a warm climate—but those who had them shared with those who hadn't; the China Doll borrowed a pair, much too big for him, from Uncle Podger; those who had none, and would not borrow, wore their flannel trousers. Of course the Pink Rat turned out in beautifully creased white ducks and spotless shoes; the Pink Rat always carried about with him a very extensive wardrobe, though where he stowed it all, no one could imagine.

But no one bothered about clothes. It was so glorious to be warm again, and to be on their way to "do" something and fire their guns.

"At something better than sea-gulls!" said the Orphan, grinning with delight. "We'll have shells coming all round us; you'll get plenty of them, up in your old foretop, China Doll; you and your range-finder will be blown sky-high in no time. Won't that be fun?"

The China Doll opened and shut his eyes, and simply trembled with excitement.

"The China Doll has his legs blown off!" shouted the Pink Rat—the senior snotty. "First aid on the China Doll!"

With a rush the snotties tumbled him on his back. "Lie still!" they yelled. "Stop kicking—your legs are blown off—you haven't got any!"

"If I haven't got any, you won't feel me kicking!" the China Doll squeaked, lashing out with his feet.

Whilst two ran for a bamboo stretcher, the others captured his legs and tied them together with handkerchiefs and table napkins, so tightly that the victim cried for mercy. The stretcher was brought; they lashed him in it; lashed his arms in, to prevent him grabbing at the furniture and shouting and yelling, ran him aft along the deck to lower him down into the Gunner's store-room, below the armoured deck, where the doctors set up their operating table at "Action" station.

Fortunately for the China Doll the armoured hatch leading down to it was shut down and must not be opened.

On the way back to the gun-room with him, they had to pass the Surgeon's cabin, where Doctor Crayshaw Gordon was sitting, busy censoring letters. Dr. Crayshaw Gordon, R.N.V.R.—in private life he had a big consulting practice in London—hearing the noise and seeing the stretcher, thought there had been an accident, so jumped out of his cabin. "Hello!" he sung out, in his funny chuckling way of talking—fixing his gold eyeglasses on his nose, opening his mouth wide, and pulling nervously at his little pointed tawny beard. "Hello! what's the matter?"

"The China Doll, sir!" they shouted, dropping him on the deck. "Both legs blown off!—he can't kick you, sir, we've lashed him up too tightly."

"It's very painful," the China Doll bleated, all the pink gone out of his face.

Dr. Gordon went down on his knees and began to unlash him.

"Rather too much—too much," he said in his agitated manner, when he found how tightly the handkerchiefs had been fastened, and cried out with alarm when the China Doll's head suddenly dropped back.

"He's fainted, you silly fellows!"

They unbuckled the straps and untied the handkerchiefs in double-quick time.

"Put him on my bunk," Dr. Gordon told them; and, very frightened, they laid him there.

The China Doll's eyes opened, and he looked round not knowing what had happened. "Don't play ass tricks; get out of it; leave him here!" Dr. Gordon ordered gently; and they trooped away, dragging the stretcher along after them—rather sobered for the moment—to get a lecture from the Sub and Uncle Podger when they crowded into the gun-room and told what had happened.

In half an hour the China Doll was back again—none the worse, except that the pink had not all come back in his doll's face—rather pleased with himself than otherwise.

That happened on a Wednesday afternoon. On the Thursday, orders came by wireless for the Achates to rendezvous off the Gulf of Smyrna; and as dawn broke on Friday, the 5th March, she found herself half-way between the islands of Mytilene and Chios.

No one knew what was going to happen except, perhaps, Captain Macfarlane. "And he's probably forgotten," the irrepressible Orphan said.

This young gentleman was on watch with his guns, under the fore bridge, when the rendezvous was reached, and spotted some puffs of smoke rising above the horizon to the north'ard. Presently he saw through his glasses the masts of two battleships.

"What are they?" he asked excitedly of one of his petty officers, who was training a gun in their direction and looking through the telescopic sight.

"I know them, sir!" he cried. "The Swiftsure and Triumph. Look at their cranes—boat cranes—amidships, sir; there can't be any mistaking them, sir."

As the Orphan had never seen them before, he had to take his word for it.

"Trawlers behind 'em, sir—half a dozen or more," the petty officer called out.

In half an hour the very graceful outlines of these two battleships could be seen without glasses—easily distinguished from any other ship in the Navy by their hydraulic cranes for hoisting boats in and out.

The Orphan looked at them with all the more interest, because he knew that they had just come from the Dardanelles, and he peered at them through his glasses to try and discover any shell-marks. They looked as if they had just come out of dockyard hands, and he felt disappointed.

The trawlers followed, like ducklings out for a morning paddle with their father and mother. Very homely they looked.

Signal hoists fluttered and were hauled down, and soon the three big ships, with the little trawlers clustered at a respectful distance, lay with engines stopped.

The Captains of the battleships came across to the Achates, and an R.N.R. Lieutenant—in charge of the trawlers—bobbed alongside in a trawler's dinghy and scrambled on board. All three went below to the Captain's cabin.

It was a perfect morning, the breeze a little chilly, the sea calm, and just beginning to catch the light of the sun as it rose behind the misty, grey mountains of Asia Minor.

The two spotless gigs and the disreputable dinghy lay alongside, and their crews were soon busy answering questions, as the quarter-deck men left off their scrubbing decks and bawled down to know the news, and how things were going, and what was to be done here. "Have you been hit?" was the chief question.

"We got an 8-inch in the quarter-deck," the Swiftsure's boat's crew called up. "Knocked the ward-room about cruel;" and the Triumphs, jealous, told them: "It ain't nothin' compared to Kiao Chau—we got our foretop knocked out bombarding the forts there; a 12-inch shell what did that. It's not near so bad here as what it was out there."

In the hubbub of voices the Commander, splashing out of the battery in his sea-boots, sent the men back to their holystones and squeegees.

The Captains and the R.N.R. Lieutenant went back to their ships and trawlers, and then the three big ships commenced steaming in line ahead up the Gulf of Smyrna, the Achates leading, the Swiftsure astern of her, and the Triumph astern of the Swiftsure. The little trawlers were left behind.

By breakfast-time everyone in the gun-room knew that the forts of Smyrna were to be bombarded. The Navigator's "doggy"—the Pimple—came down bursting with this information. "The Navigator says we shall be in range just after dinner. I heard the Captain tell him they had a big fort there with 9- or 10-inch guns, and a mine-field in front of it—any amount of mines."

"We shall get first smack at them, shan't we?" the others said, beaming. "Our Captain is the senior one, isn't he?" and they hurried through breakfast and clattered up on the quarter-deck to have a look at the land.

By this time the ships were well inside the Gulf of Smyrna, steaming along its southern shore. Green olive-clad hills, rising from the sparkling, sunlit sea, sloped upwards until their sides, becoming barren, towered ragged into the cloudless sky. For two hours they steamed along, until, in front of them, the mountain barrier which circled the head of the Gulf, and sheltered the town of Smyrna itself, loomed ahead fourteen miles away.

The three ships were quite close inshore now, and every officer and man who had no special duties was on deck looking ashore, yarning in the glorious warm sunshine, pointing out villages, eagerly scanning every projecting point of land, and wondering whether the Vali of Smyrna knew they were coming and was prepared.

They were not long in doubt. The tall, aristocratic Major of Marines, soaked in Eastern lore by many years spent among Arabs and Sudanese, suddenly spotted a little pillar of grey smoke rising from the shore. He pointed it out, saying it was a signal, and was much chaffed by the other ward-room officers, until even they realized that he was right, when more curled up from projecting points of land as they steamed past. The news of their approach was being passed along to Smyrna.

"Isn't it exciting? I do feel ripping, inside," the Orphan told the Lamp-post as they both watched the shore and the signals. "Isn't it an adventure? my hat!"

"The Greek galleys and the Roman galleys came along just as we are coming," the learned Lamp-post said excitedly. "I bet the poor galley-slaves' backs were tired before they fetched up!"

"It must have been beastly for them not to be able to see where they were going and not to take part in the fighting."

"They didn't want to," the Lamp-post told him. "Let's come for'ard."

So they went along the boat deck, and from there they soon were able to see a little square shape rising out of the water. It was the fort of Yeni Kali, which commanded the approach to the Bay of Smyrna and the town. It was jutting out on low-lying land from the southern shore of the bay, which here made a broad sweep along the foot of some very high hills.

Up above, on the bridge, the Navigator was pointing out to the Pimple a buoy with a flag on it. "That marks the end of the mine-field. I'll bet anything they've forgotten to remove it, or haven't had time. You see that low ground to the right of it—all covered with bushes and things—they've got batteries somewhere there, and there are more of them half-way up the hills."

The Pimple nervously followed the Navigator's finger as he pointed out the places, and expected every moment that a gun would open fire. He had felt very brave at breakfast when he talked about them, but he was not quite sure whether he was enjoying himself so much as he expected.

The ships stopped engines whilst still out of range, and went to dinner at seven bells. An excited cheery dinner it was, and the mess deck hummed like a wasps' nest, the hoary old grandfathers among the men—and there were many of them—in as high spirits as anybody.

Punctually at half-past twelve Captain Macfarlane went for'ard to the bridge, the ships commenced to go ahead, and the bugles blared out "Action stations"—the ordinary General Quarters bugle without the preliminary two "G" blasts, but what a difference when heard for the first time!

The China Doll, clambering up the fore shrouds to his dizzy perch in the for'ard fire-control top, found his little heart thumping so much that he had to have a "stand easy" half-way up, gripping the ratlines and getting his breath.

Captain Macfarlane—on the bridge—saw him stop, and guessed the reason. He had had much experience of shells coming his way—during the Boer War—and knew how he had hated them, so felt sorry for the youngster.

"A lot depends on you, Mr. Stokes" (that was the China Doll's name), he called up to him encouragingly; and the China Doll was up the rigging like a redshank, tremendously proud and happy, clambered into the top, and began helping the seamen, already there, take the canvas cover off the range-finder and unlash the canvas screens.

The Gunnery-Lieutenant climbed up after him, and snubbed him for asking foolish questions. "Were they going to fire? Who was going to fire? How do I know? You'll know soon enough. Just hang on to those voice-pipes and don't talk."

So for some time the China Doll, humbled again, had nothing to do but look round him. Right ahead was the fort, standing square and bold at the end of the low-lying land. Three miles or so behind it, sloping up the mountains, were the white houses of Smyrna; over to the northern shore, to his left, long heaps lay dazzling in the sun—salt heaps these were; and on the right, the high hills with their concealed batteries. He looked behind at the two ships following astern, and down below at the Achates beneath him, and wondered, if the mast were shot away, whether he would fall clear of her in the water or on top of the boats. The "top" where he was, looked so small from down below, but when he was actually in it, it seemed so big that he thought shells couldn't possibly miss it.

He looked down at the bridge, and saw the Pimple shadowing the tall Navigator as he dodged from side to side of the bridge—they would both go into the conning-tower presently; he saw Mr. Meredith's bald head showing out of the turret on the fo'c'sle, and Rawlinson squeezed his head out too. For a moment he rather wished he could change places with them.

But then the orders came up through the voice-pipes. The Captain wanted the range of the fort. The seaman at the range-finder fumbled about with the thumb-screws and sang out: "One—six—nine—five—o" (the o is sounded as a letter, not as a figure). These were yards. The China Doll shouted down his voice-pipe: "One—six—nine—five—o". Nothing more came up for a quarter of an hour; he noticed how the "top" shook with the vibration of the engines. Then he had to sing down his voice-pipe: "One—five—five—o—o"; another interval; the range came down: "One—four—one—o—o", and the Gunnery-Lieutenant began shouting orders through his voice-pipes about degrees of elevation and the kind of shell to be used.

A bell tinkled close to him, and the red disk showed that the transmitting-room was calling him. Uncle Podger was there, he knew, sitting in the little padded room below the armoured deck and the water-line, with his head almost inside a huge voice-pipe shaped like the end of a gramophone, listening for orders, and waiting to pass them on to the various guns. And it was Uncle Podger's voice which came to him: "What's happening? Are we getting close in? It's beastly hot down here; aren't we going to fire soon?"

Before he could answer, a long signal hoist nearly knocked off his cap, flicking against the side of the "top" as it went up to the mast-head. Down it came again; a corner of a yellow-and-red pendant caught in a voice-pipe; he released it, and saw the signalman haul the flags down, in a gaily coloured heap, on the bridge below him. When he looked astern again, the two ships were spreading out; the vibration of the "top" ceased. He knew that the engines had stopped, and presently all three ships lay in line, with their starboard broadsides turned towards the old fort.

The Gunnery-Lieutenant now flew about, jumping from voice-pipes to range-finder and back again, reporting to the Captain. "Aye, aye, sir!" he shouted, and then called down, "Fore turret!—fore turret! try a ranging shot—common shell—one—four—o—five—o, at the left edge of the fort. Fire when you are ready!"

"THE GUNNERY LIEUTENANT NOW FLEW ABOUT, JUMPING FROM VOICE PIPES TO RANGE-FINDER AND BACK AGAIN"

The China Doll felt funny thrills running up and down his backbone as he watched the fore turret move round, and the long chase of the 9.2-inch gun cock itself in the air. Mr. Meredith's bald head disappeared through the sighting hood. He heard the snap of the breech-block and the cheery sound of "Ready!" Mr. Meredith's head came out of his hood as he gazed at the distant fort through his glasses. He heard the word "Fire!" and at the same moment the fighting-top swayed as if a squall had struck the mast, a great cloud of yellowish smoke blotted out the foc's'le, and the Achates had fired a gun for the second time in the war—on this occasion not at sea-gulls!

In a few seconds a column of water leapt into the air behind the fort—the shell had fallen in the bay beyond. The Gunnery-Lieutenant roared down: "One—three—eight—five—o; fire as soon as you are ready!"

Off went the gun again; another wait, and a black-reddish splash appeared on the face of the fort, and up shot a cloud of dirty smoke. "Hit, sir!"

After that he was too busy to notice anything; he only remembered, later on, that the Turks had not fired back. More signals were hoisted; the Swiftsure and Triumph commenced firing, and in a very short space of time hits were being rapidly made on Yeni Kali fort.

Then the after turret of the Achates opened fire, and with her second round landed a lyddite shell square on one corner of the fort—brick dust and masonry going sky-high.

The Turks did not return the fire.

When, eventually, the bugle sounded the "secure", the China Doll could hardly believe that he had been there for two and a half hours, and at the order to "pack up" he climbed down below, and ran to the gun-room, where Barnes, the big marine, in his shirt-sleeves, was already laying the table for afternoon tea.

The snotties and Uncle Podger came trooping in, jabbering like magpies; the Pink Rat, who was in the after turret, and Rawlinson, who had the foremost one, each claiming that his own gun had made most hits. They both were getting angry—the Pink Rat cool and cynical, Rawlinson's temper getting the better of him.

They seized the China Doll. "You saw; which gun did best?" but the Assistant Clerk was much too wily to take sides, and wriggled away.

They pounced on the Pimple, who had been on the bridge all the time. He, flattered to have his opinion asked, thought that Rawlinson's gun had made more hits.

"That rotten, worn-out pipe of a gun of yours," the Pink Rat sneered, "couldn't hit a haystack at a mile; yours were dropping short all the time!"

"Yours may be the slightly better gun" (it was more modern), "but if you had anything to do with it, it wouldn't hit the Crystal Palace, a hundred yards away," Rawlinson snorted, getting red in the face. "Ours didn't go short."

"Contradiction is no argument," the Pink Rat said loftily; and Rawlinson, who was half as big again as the senior snotty (that was why the Pimple had backed him), would have given him a hiding, had not the Sub come in and stopped them.

"What the dickens does it matter? We've given old Yeni Kali a fair 'beano'; its own mother wouldn't know it. Hurry up with the tea booze; I've to go on watch; out, both of you, if you can't keep quiet!"

Barnes brought in the big teapot, slices of bread and jam and butter disappeared marvellously as they all ate and gabbled. "Why didn't they shoot back?—the mean beggars—I expect we've knocked out all their guns," Rawlinson gurgled with his mouth full. "You didn't, anyway," sneered the Pink Rat.

"I wish we'd gone straight in—don't put your sleeve in my butter—I don't believe those mines would have gone off—wouldn't they?—a bally lot you know about mines—you pig, Pimple, you've taken half that tin of jam—the Captain knows all about them—that's what those trawlers are for—shove across the bread—they'll sweep a passage through them—why didn't they let us fire more of our 6-inch—your old guns, Orphan—they ain't as much good as a sick headache—look at that slice of cake the Pink Rat's cut—put the Pink Rat down for two slices, Barnes, and bring along the teapot."

The Hun put his head in at the door. "Twenty-five minutes past four, sir."

"All right! Curse it! I'm coming," and gulping down what was left of his tea, and grabbing his telescope and cap, the Sub went up to relieve the watch amidst a babel of "Hun! Hun! hold on a jiffy! You were on the bridge all the time; which 9.2 made the most hits? What did the Captain say?"

"The after gun; that's what the Captain said," he told them, and went out again.

"I told you so!" laughed the Pink Rat; and Rawlinson, crestfallen and angry, shouted "that he didn't believe it, and if it was true, that it was all due to the China Doll passing down the wrong ranges".

The poor Assistant Clerk flushed with mortification, and squeaked out: "I know I didn't make any mistake—I just repeated the figures after the Gunnery-Lieutenant—they were right at my end of the voice-pipe."

"Well, don't cry!" Rawlinson growled. "You've got such a silly voice—you can't help it—the figures must have come wrong at our end."

They seized the luckless China Doll, stuck him on a bench at one end of the mess, twisted one of the long white table-cloths into a rope, and made him hold one end, whilst the Orphan held the other to his ear and pretended to listen.

"Now pass the range," they laughed; "try one—five—nine—o—o."

"One—five—nine—o—o," the China Doll called into the end of the table-cloth, not quite certain that he was enjoying himself.

"One—four—seven—six—and a half," repeated the Orphan very solemnly.

"There you are! China! try again!" and they made him give the order. "Train seventeen degrees on the port beam."

The Orphan, thinking hard, shook his head and shouted back "Repeat!"

"Train seventeen degrees on the port beam," the China Doll repeated.

As solemn as a judge, the Orphan sang out, "Tame seven clean fleas in the cream;" and as the poor Assistant Clerk squeaked, "Don't be silly!" there were yells of "He called you silly, Orphan; you aren't going to stand that. Go for him, Orphan. We'll hold him; he shan't hurt you." But Uncle Podger told them all to stop fooling and smooth out the table-cloth. "We can't get things washed properly on board," he said.