The Admiralty

23 July 1909

“Congratulations, Spence, I’ll be over there to congratulate you properly later on. Have some Bruichcladdich waiting for me.” Devon Cavendish replaced the receiver in the cradle, glad to be rid of the distraction. Of course Spencer was the new Prime Minister, the Opposition was in shambles, and Fisher had shot himself in the foot by refusing to offer up his protégé as a sacrificial lamb on the altar of public scrutiny. Asquith had been…persuaded…to remain on the sidelines, and Lloyd George…well, no one wanted a Welsh PM. But the election was won, and the Party well and truly in control.

Which brought his attention back to the matter at hand. He finished pouring the drinks the phone call had interrupted, placing them on the silver tray himself before turning to serve the three men seated in the small office. Large, brusque men who were ill suited to the small confines of the spartanly appointed room. All three wore the uniform of the Sky Fleet, though some wore it more easily than others. Cavendish again mentally berated the short-sightedness of the Admiralty that had left him with little choice other than to approach such men as this. At least in the Borderers, there had been men of class. He doubted these men even knew what Bruichcladdich was, let alone what it tasted like. They were impressed enough with the Glenfiddich he’d just poured each of them.

“What exactly are we here for, milord?”

Cavendish managed to keep his annoyance from flashing across his face as the senior of the men spoke. Captain John Christian, the so-called Butcher of Calcutta, and his irritating New Zealand accent. No class. Cavendish knew the only reason he hadn’t been cashiered from the Sky Fleet was Fisher didn’t want to irritate those hawks in Parliament who had nodded with agreement at Christian’s heavy-handed approach for dealing with the natives. He forced himself to adopt the disarming smile that left most military men thinking he was yet another spoiled politician. That he had left the cane at home certainly didn’t hurt.

“Thank you, John—can I call you John?—for asking.” Cavendish couldn’t care less whether Christian minded him using his given name, but small concessions and all that. “What I want to talk to you gentlemen about is where you see the future of the Sky Fleet going.” All three men shifted uncomfortably in their seats at the words. Cavendish decided to play the status card. “As you may know, I’m a Privy Councillor, and I feel it is my duty as such to give the King as accurate advice as I can. For that, I need to know what can be done to improve and fix the service.” And what I need to do to ostracize the Fisher clique without completely gutting the efficiency of the Sky Fleet. At the end of the day, Cavendish wanted the Sky Fleet to be full of Christians, pit bulls for the Empire, not afraid to put a bit of stick about. Fisher would never let his troops off the leash like they needed to be. Hence, he needed to go. It wasn’t about one man, it was about the future of the empire.

“For one, you can tell the bloody Admiralty to stop tying our hands and give us some decent crews, instead of their cast offs. Or better yet, you can tell the Admiralty to sod off, and give us our own service.” Lieutenant Commander Ralph Richards, currently CO of the HML Raven. He’d voiced a thought that Cavendish had espoused himself at times, making the Sky Fleet separate from the Navy, but the reality was the two were so closely tied together, it was impractical to separate them. Still, he liked Richards’ line of thinking. One to watch.

“To do that, you’d have to get rid of Fisher. And then you’d have Scott. I’m not Jackie’s biggest fan, but I prefer him over Prancing Percy.” Cavendish furrowed his brow. Stupid flyers didn’t realize the Sea Lord was a political position, not a military one, and replacing Fisher with Scott would not happen…but replacing Fisher was one part of the equation, replacing Scott was an easier task…He decided to broach the issue with these men, his litmus test of the flying corps.

“Who would replace Scott, then?” The third man, Frederic Dreyer, didn’t hesitate to respond.

“Jellicoe.”

Cavendish had been surprised his contacts had recommended inviting Dreyer at all, given the man’s close relationship with the Fisher clique. But the fact he was here suggested ambition, and more than that, Dreyer was intelligent. Intelligent enough that Cavendish might make use of him, if he could trust him. Trusting a Son of Abraham? Well, politics makes for strange bedfellows indeed. It was certain someone of that faith would never make flag rank in the Royal Navy without very strong backing. Of course, that backing would come at a price…It was worth considering.

In any case, at the moment this discussion was about the King—or more accurately, Cavendish advising the King. It wasn’t yet about Fisher’s transition from power, so Dreyer had no reason to feel conflicting loyalties. For the moment, he was a sounding board and nothing more.

“It doesn’t matter anyway—Fisher has the King’s ear, and nothing will happen while that’s true,” Christian said. Cavendish found himself reappraising Christian’s political acumen. Now if only one of them would nudge the conversation in that direction…

“About the only thing that would change that is if Fisher invaded bloody France! Hahah!” Richards took another swig from his tumbler and then filled up the glass from the crystal carafe. I should not have invited him after all, a drunk by the looks of it, and his greatest contribution is get Fisher to invade France. What a waste of time…

Or is it?

To Be Continued…

Buckingham Palace

13 February 1909

“Goddamn it, John! What were you thinking?!”

Admiral John Jellicoe looked up sharply at his superior’s words. No sooner had the Skagerrak fleet arrived back in England, than he had been whisked off to London to face an inquiry at the Admiralty. That had been remarkably pro forma, with the questions aimed not so much at his handling of the so-called debacle, but Fisher’s role in the exercise. So having his mentor address him in such a way—especially in this place!—was a slight shock to the system.

“Ah, sir, I’m not certain I understand what you mean. You know what happened. The German fleet arrived in much more force than anticipated, and I made the decision to minimize any casualties.” Which was what you told me to do. He left the last unsaid, not sure how it would go down. The other man in the room took a deep puff from his pipe, the blue-grey smoke drifting listlessly towards the domed ceiling of the sitting room.

“I’m not sure what else you expected him to do, Jackie—that blasted battleship showed up, and from that point on, our ‘show of force’ was going to escalate into a proper shooting war.” Third Sky Lord Admiral Percy Scott took another puff. “No, John did the right thing withdrawing. We both know that.”

Fisher sighed languidly. “I know that, Percy…it’s just that blasted Harris raked me over the coals, and he’s not the only one. After the fight I had to put up to keep Lloyd George from slashing the budget, I’ve lost more friends than I’ve gained in Parliament lately. Now with this…I’m not sure why I ever agreed to stand for ruddy office.”

“Because I asked you to, dear Jackie.” All three men rapidly came to their feet to greet the new arrival. The King awkwardly waved for them to remain seated before sinking into the stuffed chair opposite Fisher. He took out his own pipe and Scott leaned across to light it. “This is a bit of bad business, Jack.”

Jellicoe huffed. “The thing is, it’s not—we took out more of the Krauts than they did of us, and we withdrew in good order.” In response, the King pulled out the folded newspaper stuffed in the side of the chair, one that had obviously been there for a while. Jellicoe cringed when he saw the photo on the front page: the wreckage of the HML Suffolk festooned with German sailors and airmen at the Caserne in Kiel. The Times had been proud of their photographic coup, but it had been the bane of his existence since his return from sea. The boffins at Whale Island had been concerned about Germans learning the secrets of the British leviathans, but it was largely immaterial. The Germans knew how to build the flyers, and the County-class was a fairly basic design, most not even mounting Dreyer’s new sighting mechanism.

No, the impact of the Suffolk was the fact that a British vessel had been captured, albeit only through salvage, by a foreign power. And whilst Jellicoe had the utmost respect for Fisher, he also knew that Fisher might have to cast him to the wolves in order to save his own nascent political career. Whether or not he went quietly was a completely different question. Out of respect for their friendship, he was hoping it would not come to that.

As always, the elephant in the room was the King. Fisher’s relationship with the King had seen him take on the civilian political role, and seen him advance to a cabinet post, albeit one closely related to his naval career, all in a matter of months. And while Fisher was a good man, he was also ambitious enough—if not for himself, then for his ideas—that he might see the need to throw a close friend and protégé on the sacrificial altar.

“Admiral, I know you did the right thing, we all do. But Jackie is more than a naval officer now. What has happened, and why, is much less important than what has been perceived to happen.” The King tapped the photo pointedly. “That is what the people see.”

“Regardless, Sire, I’m not going to sacrifice John to save a political career.”

Jellicoe nodded at Fisher’s words, glad for his mentor’s support. Thank goodness for small mercies.

The King shook his head disappointedly. “I’m not asking you to, Jackie. But, you’ll be in a position to help him more as Prime Minister than as Sea Lord.” The King softened his voice and faced Jellicoe directly. “John, take the blame for this now, and it will all blow over later on.” He tried a different approach. “If someone doesn’t take the blame, then the assumption will be that Lloyd George was right, and the leviathans are overpriced mistakes.”

Jellicoe felt a twinge of annoyance at the King using his belief in the Sky Fleet against him. Fisher interjected before he could respond. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not going to allow John to take the blame for what was a sound tactical decision. Photos be damned, I’ll stand by my man. Those bastards in the House may have forgotten, but a man is a man by his actions, not his words.” He turned to face the King. “Sorry, Sire, but I am Sea Lord, and as such the responsibility falls to me.”

The King took a deep puff from his pipe and breathed out lightly. “Then I can’t help you, John. Your party won’t back you if you decide to do this.

“I know, Sire. Politics—and especially politicians—be damned.”

House of Commons

12 February 1909

He let the commotion in the chamber wash over him as he leaned back, allowing his fellow backbenchers to support Ryan’s words. Form over substance—it was the modus operandi of these Parliamentary sittings. The Speaker would bang his gavel, both sides would yell at each other, the newspapers would get some good copy. But the real deals, the real power, lay in the backrooms of Parliament. Spencer didn’t understand that. He thought he did, but that was why they had approached Devon, and not Spencer.

He thought about the oath he had sworn almost immediately prior to this sitting, its words still lingering in his ears.

“You do swear by Almighty God to be a true and faithful Servant unto the King’s Majesty, as one of His Majesty’s Privy Council. You will not know of or understand any manner of thing to be attempted, done or spoken against His Majesty’s Person, Honour, Crown or Dignity Royal, but you will let and withstand the same to the uttermost of your Power, and either cause it to be revealed to His Majesty himself, or to such of his Privy Council as shall advertise His Majesty of the same. You will, in all things to be moved, treated and debated in Council, faithfully and truly declare your Mind and Opinion, according to your Heart and Conscience; and will keep secret all Matters committed and revealed unto you, or that shall be treated of secretly in Council. And if any of the said Treaties or Counsels shall touch any of the Councillors, you will not reveal it unto him, but will keep the same until such time as, by the Consent of His Majesty, or of the Council, Publication shall be made thereof. You will to your uttermost bear Faith and Allegiance unto the King’s Majesty; and will assist and defend all Jurisdictions, Pre eminences and Authorities, granted to His Majesty, and annexed to the Crown by Acts of Parliament, or otherwise, against all Foreign Princes, Persons, Prelates, States or Potentates. And generally in all things you will do as a faithful and true Servant ought to do to His Majesty. So help you God.”

The oath of the Privy Council—easily uttered and agreed to. It was not the words that moved Devon, but the recognition they provided. There had not been an announcement yet, nor would there be until after the election. So for the moment he would remain where he was—directing the grand play that was Parliament. That one of the main actors was his brother was irrelevant. This went beyond personal ambition, beyond the petty rivalries that fueled the chamber.

The Speaker’s words interrupted his train of thought. “The Honourable First Sea Lord.” Fisher had grudgingly stood and was being recognized by the Speaker. Devon raised his hand to cover the smile on his face. Fisher, who for years had been the archetypal Navy man, looked decidedly out of place in his Savile Row suit, and the slump in his shoulders was new as well. Ah well, the man should never have agreed to the King’s request to be the new Sea Lord. Politics was a dangerous game…

“Mr. Speaker, thank you. I should begin by saying the details of the Skagerrak battle are still under investigation, and I—” Fisher’s voice was lost in the explosion of shouts that had the Speaker banging away furiously with his gavel.

Devon forced a look of concern onto his face. He’d been right—this was going to be fun.

To Be Continued…

House of Commons

12 February 1909

“The Germans!” Spittle flew from the rotund man’s lips as he spat out the words, as if they did him physical harm. His outburst did not go unnoticed. Parliament was more full than it had been in weeks, evidence of the anticipation—and dread—that many of the MPs were feeling as to how Jackie Fisher would extricate himself from this one.

“Order! The Member for Stoke-on-Trent will resume his seat or be removed from the chamber!” The gavel accompanying the Speaker’s words was lost in the cacophony of voices that exploded in contest. The Member for Stoke-on-Trent Central, the Right Honourable Kelvin Harris, MP, waved the newspaper in his hand menacingly at the man seated opposite the chamber before the Speaker grudgingly acknowledged him.

“Will the Sea Lord explain how the vaunted, and oh-so-expensive, flying toys that he has insisted time and again the nation needs to move into this new century—in opposition to his own Chancellor I might add!—managed to be defeated by the Germans, who by his own words are mere novices?” Harris turned to address the rest of the House, relishing his moment to perform for the press gallery. “Mr. Speaker, I would put forward that if the Sea Lord’s grand flyers are incapable of defeating “mere novices,” then perhaps it is time for a new Sea Lord!”

In his seat to the right and slightly behind Fisher, Devon Cavendish grimaced. Harris was meant to erode faith in Fisher, not the capabilities of the leviathans themselves. The low-born prat knew these abuse sessions made good copy, and he was milking it for all it was worth, but of course, he didn’t know the stakes that were being played for.

Devon couldn’t have planned it better—a defeat, against the Germans, of all people! Now to make sure Fisher bore the brunt of the responsibility. The problem with trying to guide things along the path he had chosen was people were not dolls to be jerked about on strings. The men in this room were weak, their convictions eroded years ago by soft lifestyles and comforts not enjoyed by the average Briton. But that did not mean they were as malleable as he’d like. Plenty were, of course, but most you had to push in the right direction. For all their status in society, and self-perceived worth, at the end of the day, they were simple folk—largely here by dint of their birth. What did the Americans call it? Manifest destiny? The thought brought a smile to his face.

But this was also a risky move, giving Harris the ammunition he needed to pin one of Cavendish’s own party. The general election was still a few months out, and whilst the Party had the early lead, the Opposition could still score a few points of their own. And though removing Fisher was the ultimate goal, it would not do for his failures to bring down the Party as a whole. Especially given the alternatives.

So Harris had to be reined in.

Cavendish coughed lightly, making an exaggerated gesture. As if on cue, the Member for Erdington stood up, waiting to be recognized by the Speaker. With a flourish, the wigged figure gestured for the other man to begin. Nodding his thanks, the lean figure of Andrew Ryan, MP, launched into his own tirade, this time directed at the opposition. Cavendish didn’t bother to listen. He’d told the other man what to say. Devon Cavendish, Whip for the Liberal Unionists—not even Chief Whip—and here he was directing proceedings in Parliament for the grandest Empire on the planet.

And the best part? No one realized. Not Harris, who thought Cavendish was a misshapen fop riding his brother’s coat-tails; not Ryan, who thought he was the Party’s hope for the future, and Devon was simply attaching himself to Ryan’s own rising star. Not Fisher, squirming uncomfortably in his seat, a competitor in a race he did not yet know had started. And finally, not dear old Spencer, seated at the right hand of the Prime Minister he was plotting to replace, the ambition he kept so well hidden quietly fermenting away.

But others had noticed. Had noticed much sooner than Devon realized.

To Be Continued…

HML Philopoemen

12 January 1909

Ratings spoke quietly into the speaking tubes before them as Christian continued giving rapid-fire orders. “Helm, bring us about, make sure those buggers can’t get a good shot at the boats.” Crippen nodded. Admiral Jellicoe’s plan was for the larger leviathans to shield the lighter, more nimble vessels with their bulk, whilst opening up their broadsides at the Germans arrayed against them. The Edward VII-class leviathans were well armoured enough to take whatever the Krauts could throw at them. In this fight, the Germans were simply outclassed. Even with a decade’s worth of neglect, the ocean-going vessels of the Royal Navy were still a match for any navy in the world—whether augmented by Levs or not.

As if to illustrate the point, the Philopoemen heaved under his feet as the designated batteries opened fire. The thundercrack of each gun was largely absorbed by the mass of steel and wood that served as the Philopoemen’s superstructure, and only the wavering of the pegs holding aloft from his map board the wooden blocks that served as representations of the various fleet vessels gave any indication of the Germans’ return fire.

“Rupert, shift fire and hit those surface targets before the Counties go in. And for God’s sake, Rupert, make sure those gunners know what they’re hitting before they fire. Fisher will chew my arse out if any of those bloody floaties takes one from us!”

“Sir! Look at the Suffolk!” Both Crippen and Christian snapped their heads up in unison to look off the port bow at the British County-class light cruiser.

“Bloody fool! He’ll get his arse kicked!” Crippen nodded as he watched the other British vessel engage the German surface targets. Unlike the Philopoemen, which had stayed back and used its superior range to drop fire onto the German surface flotilla whilst continuing to engage the German leviathan fleet, the Suffolk had rushed forward and was now tilting at an angle of twenty-five degrees off the vertical, allowing its gunners a much clearer shot at the German boats, but exposing the softer superstructure to the German leviathan counter-fire.

Sensing the opening, two of the German vessels shifted fire away from the naval cruisers they were intent on engaging, and towards the Suffolk. A low-caliber cannonade peppered the deck of the British Lev, but there was no real damage as the British vessel raked the German flotilla with a full broadside. Black smoke exploded as the German vessels attempted to shroud their position from above, but it was too late, with several of the Suffolk’s shots hitting a target.

“Blast!” Christian shouted. “What the hell is that?! Bloody Admiralty told us all their Levs were accounted for!”

Crippen grabbed the field glasses off the plotting table and stepped outside the flying bridge, making sure to secure his guide strap’s dog clip to the recess provided for the purpose. Sure enough, emerging from the haze at the rear of the German leviathan formation was a massive vessel, bigger than even the Philopoemen and its brethren. Crippen could hear Christian, still roaring: “Rupert! Get on the horn and let Jellicoe know, now!”

Crippen was more concerned about the crew of the Suffolk. Their captain’s bravado in disregarding the threat of the German leviathans now saw them exposed to the murderous fire that only a Battleship could deliver. The new German arrival’s capabilities were unknown, but Crippen could count as many, if not more gun batteries as on the Philopoemen. As if reading his thoughts, the other British vessel slowly rolled on its axis, trying to present its armoured underbellly to the marauding German behemoth bearing down on it. The naval vessels it was ostensibly escorting were forgotten.

“Captain Christian! Admiral Jellicoe has given the withdraw order!”

“What?! God help me, boy, if you’ve messed up, I’ll God Walk you until you’re dead!”

“No, sir! Order has been confirmed, the surface vessels are taking too much damage.”

“Bullshit! Those bloody Krauts aren’t even getting a hit in!”

“Surface flotilla reports heavy fire, and—”

Crippen winced as a stream of invective flowed from his superior’s lips. “That’s why we’re using fecking Levs! What the feck did they think was going to happen?! Of course they’ll take heavy fire. Useless fecking bastards! Rupert! You tell Jellicoe to push those fecking floaties and we’ll make sure the Germans stay hit!” His frustration given voice, Christian walked outside the bridge to share a private word with Crippen. “Withdraw, Alun—withdraw! Fecking useless bastards. I—”

The captain’s next words were swallowed by an almighty explosion that rent the air. Wheeling quickly around to face the Suffolk, Crippen felt his mouth dry as little fires danced across a full third of the British vessel that was falling in a stream of fiery detritus across the wake of the German surface fleet. The Suffolk had managed to present its best face to the German battleship bearing down on it, and had still fallen. Like a pack of wolves, the remaining German cruisers fell into a formation with the larger vessel, seemingly sensing the British fleet’s moment of hesitation.

Crippen knew Christian was the most outspoken of the leviathan captains, but that didn’t mean he was the only one. The Sky Fleet had been formed from those officers and men that the Royal Navy considered expendable, and discipline was one of the main reasons. So he had no doubt the same conversation he’d just overheard between the contrite XO and the brusque captain was being replayed throughout the fleet. The Germans had seized that moment to show more cohesion than they had exhibited before, and the Suffolk and its crew were now paying the price. The British fleet was stronger and larger than its German counterpart, but the Germans weren’t hampered by the lack of communication and even respect that plagued the two separate halves of the British armada. Crippen hoped the fool at Whitehall was keelhauled, or more appropriately, God-walked for this debacle.

“Rupert! Get those guns on that bastard now! I want it out of my sky!”

“Admiral Jellicoe is ordering us to withdraw, Captain.”

“Rupert, fire the God-damned guns or I’ll kick you off the deck myself!”

“Cap’n Christian sir, look at the fleet!”

Despite Crippen’s earlier thought regarding the discipline of the Sky Fleet, when it came down to it, Admiral Jellicoe commanded a large amount of respect, and the repeated orders were slowly being obeyed. The Suffolk was struggling to set down in good shape, but thus far the Germans had refrained from further attacks. Only the Philopoemen remained at combat range, and the Germans fired sporadically, trying more to entice the Edward VII-class leviathan closer than to effectively damage it.

The Sky Fleet had lost here today, despite the decrepit forms of several Kormorant-class leviathans limping gingerly towards the rear of the German lines. They had failed, and with that, the image of invincibility the Sky Fleet had crafted was rendered impotent. Crippen looked towards his captain, the unspoken question asked by his arched eyebrows. Slamming a fist into the plotting table, Captain Christian nodded.

“Aye, Alun—rejoin the Fleet. The Germans have won this day.”

To Be Continued…

HML Philopoemen

12 January 1909

“This is a fool’s errand, lad. Mark my words. Bloody Admiralty thinks the Krauts will back down after this little display.”

As always, Petty Officer Alun Crippen struggled to understand exactly what his captain was saying. He knew his own Welsh accent was hard for some of the lads to decipher at times, but Captain Christian’s thick New Zealand brogue was nigh impenetrable. Especially when he was irritated, as he was now. But one didn’t have to be a linguist to understand the snort of derision that followed the words.

In any case, the captain was right. The Philopoemen was classified as a Battleship, a behemoth of the air; battle-hardened in the skies of the Dutch East Indies. And the Edward VII-class leviathan was not alone in the low clouds. Crippen knew there were another twelve of the Sky Fleet’s workhorses in the sky with them. But it was the rest of the vessels accompanying them that caused a looked of disgust to settle over the captain’s craggy features.

“Bloody Fisher wants to expand his own little empire. Bastard isn’t happy having the levs under his control, wants bloody toy boats to go with them. Bloody King will agree, too, the dumb bastard.” Crippen managed to keep the wince off his face. Captain John “Black Jack” Christian was well known for saying what was on his mind, the very trait that had nearly seen him keelhauled in the Navy, and the reason he’d been put forward for the leviathans program. Still, calling the King a bastard would not endear the man to the crew. Their last stopover at Whale Island had seen a changing of the guard, with most of the crew hanging up their guide straps. Only Crippen and Dusty, the chief engineer, remained of the Philopoemen’s original crew. The young lads that had heard the stories, all full of bravado, had quickly learnt what it meant to serve under Black Jack.

“Captain, you should not speak about the King that way. I—”

“Shut your mouth, Rupert, before I shut it for ya.” Crippen tried not to smile. Despite the fact the executive officer’s name was Lieutenant Thomas Pritchard (the Third), Christian had called him Rupert from the day the toffee-nosed public schoolboy stepped on the deck of the Philopoemen. Pritchard was one of the new breed, those officers that had grown up with the stories of Tsushima, of South Africa, and all the other victories for which the press praised the leviathans. The lad should have gone to Oxford or Cambridge, not signed up to fly amongst the Devil’s Breath. His delicate features were ill suited to the heavy goggles and scarves that every flyer was forced to wear—except maybe the French. Crippen had heard stories about how the French flyers were cleaner, and had fully serviced kitchens onboard, not the slop galley the Philopoemen’s crew hesitated to visit at times.

“Yessir.” A suitably chastened Pritchard was visibly sulking at the rebuke, but at least Christian had avoided raising the God Walk for once. Crippen knew Sky Lord Scott had ordered Christian to ban the practice, especially on officers, but that was like waving a red flag to a bull. The only way to counter Christian’s desire to punish his crew for their perceived failings, and usually their lack of religious fervor, was to point him at the enemy. Hence their current mission to demonstrate to the Germans that the Baltic was just as much the domain of the Royal Navy as it was of the Kaiserliche Marine.

A naval convoy was being assembled at Portsmouth with troops and a sizable Royal Navy escort—just in case—but as was becoming more common, the Sky Fleet was called forth first to put the German upstarts in their place. Hence the arrival of the flotilla under Rear Admiral Jellicoe. The Germans had their own leviathans, but they were nothing compared to their British counterparts. Christian, during his one and only strategy meeting with Admiral Jellicoe had advocated forcibly blockading the Skaggerak and simply sinking any German-flagged vessel until the Germans repealed their so-called Kiel Proclamation. Jellicoe had been less than impressed.

The Admiralty, ever mindful of the growing irrelevance of the seagoing Navy, had fought hard for a joint component for the exercise, and a small flotilla of British sea vessels steamed through the waters below Crippen and the Philopoemen. The fact that the French were gaining the upper hand in the sky race due to their hidden elefacturies in Africa was irrelevant. Britannia ruled the waves. The sky was an afterthought

In the ideal world, the Philopoemen and her sisters of the Sky Fleet would engage the gaggle of Kormorant-class leviathans floating idly above the German naval forces in a duel for supremacy; a duel where the victor would graciously allow the vanquished to leave the field of battle, and the vanquished would withdraw peaceably, conceding the dominance of their opponents without need for recompense.

But it was not an ideal world.

“Sir, Belligerent signals commence firing.” Crippen stiffened as the young rating passed the message on. This was it. Yet again they were in combat. And this time for no other reason than to experiment with some fool in Whitehall’s idea of diplomacy. The Germans had run up the war ensign, and not backed down as expected. His musings were lost as the booming voice of his commander echoed across the flying bridge.

“Gunnery stations one through four, engage that bastard—and it’s the God Walk for anyone who misses!”

To Be Continued…