Thirty days later…

Aviation Board of Inquiry
La Borget Field
France

Sous-lieutenant François Moreau sat alone at the table for the defense, as was the tradition. The board of inquiry into the events of the previous month was necessary. He had assumed command of the Intrépide, and the French Admiralty had questions that must be answered. While it was standard procedure after an incident such as this, he did not feel comfortable about the situation. More than one officer’s career had been broken in this room. And while he felt his actions throughout the engagement were justified, he also knew the Admiralty might have other ideas and perspectives.

The room was stuffy, made worse by the fact that the hearing was a closed proceeding. That meant no open windows, through which anything inconvenient might be overheard. The two ceiling fans created the illusion that they were cooling the room, but that was all. François tugged at his starched uniform shirt collar and tried to ignore his physical discomfort. If only his unease could be ignored as easily…

The first three hours of the court martial were a summary of the engagement. Capitaine Guisarme attended the proceedings as well, offering his recollections up until he had passed out. He knew he had given command of the ship to a Sous-lieutenant, but didn’t recall that it was to François. Hardly the ringing endorsement François had hoped for. All along, he had harbored the illusion that the Capitaine had put him in command for a reason, that he had recognized François’s competence. That wasn’t it at all. Guisarme had put him in command of the ship because he had been there.

Lieutenant Miller took the stand. He informed the board members that he had insisted on assuming command of the Intrépide but that his junior officer had refused to turn over the vessel to him. Miller gave him a glare as he said this, as if to say, “Take that!” François did not let this stir him. Miller had his own career ambitions. His true colors will show through…eventually.

Finally, he was called to testify. He walked across the ornately tiled floor to the mahogany podium and grasped it with both hands. Around his neck he felt the small wooden medallion he wore on a chain—carved from the splinter of teak that had stabbed him in the leg. He’d had an artisan etch the herald of the Intrépide into it.

Commandant aérien Gravois spoke first, not looking at François but speaking instead to the paperwork in front of him. “Sous-lieutenant Moreau; have the events thus far as presented in the testimony been accurate, in your recollection?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“And you admit that when Lieutenant Miller, a more seasoned and experienced officer, attempted to take command of the Intrépide, you refused to relinquish said command?” He finally looked up from the files and gave François a glare with his light gray eyes.

“That is correct.”

“Why not?” cut in Commander Neville, the youngest member of the court martial board.

François felt his face flush red with the question. “Under regulation 46A, as the acting Capitaine of the ship I was not required to relinquish command until such a time that measures dictated it.”

“Lieutenant Miller has said that he would have broken off the engagement. You pressed the attack on the Renown and the Python.”

“That is correct, sir. It was my estimation that turning tail and attempting to flee would only have invited disaster and a greater loss of life.”

“Greater loss of life? Lieutenant, this engagement cost the lives of eighty-seven of your crew. Another 129 were injured as a result of remaining engaged with the British ships.”

“If we had lost the ship, all hands would have gone down…including me.”

“So,” portly Commandant aérien Lisle chimed in, “You felt that the losses were acceptable?”

François paused. “The loss of a single life is not acceptable to me. But this is the life I, no, we have chosen. I was in command of the ship. When in command, you must be willing to take the risks necessary to protect our country. The British lured us into a trap. If we had tried to flee, I am confident we would not have made it to the coast. The best counter to their trap was to fight and win the battle. That is what we did.”

Commandant aérien Gravois leaned back in his chair and slid the paperwork aside. “Who were you to command that cruiser? Surely there were other officers more qualified?”

<<To Be Continued…

Heavy Cruiser Intrépide
North Sea
8 September 1900
1425 hours

Capitaine Rivenburg of the Python was not taking the bait. He coolly angled his ship the opposite direction, firing another salvo at long range. One shot whizzed past fire control, missing by a matter of twenty meters. The other slammed into the mangled armor belt at the aft of the ship. Smoke rose out of the hole—not a lot, but enough.

This one is crafty, so I must be as well. “We need to lure him in,” François said to the crew as he leaned into the mouthpiece again. “Engine room, I need you to create a 10-degree list to port.”

“Sir?” came the answering voice in the ear-tube.

“You heard me. We will be righting ourselves as soon as we lure in the enemy. I need you to fake our damage.” He turned to Miller. “Order the forward turret to depress her guns, set them a-gimble. I want it to look like we have lost that turret. Order the crews to load and stand by to turn and fire when the Python gets in close.”

Miller passed the orders down. “You realize you are gambling with our lives,” he said in a low tone so that the other gunnery officers could not hear.

“It is my life as well,” François replied.

He waited as the ship listed. Out before him, the turret turned and her guns dropped slowly as if they had lost power. Raising his binoculars, he watched and wondered if Capitaine Rivenburg would take the bait.

Suddenly the Python lunged almost straight in. François allowed himself a smile. He glanced over at Lieutenant Miller, whose face reddened.

“Order the turrets to stand by to engage the Python,” Francois said. The British destroyer fired again, another round slamming into the already damaged aft turret, plunging deeper into the guts of the Intrépide. There was a shudder as the shell went off.

“Engine room…” he said as the Python closed into optimum range. “Bring us back upright now!”

The electroid pumps churned and charged and the Intrépide slowly rolled back upright and level. “Lieutenant Miller, you may fire when ready.”

The nimble Python saw the sudden change and swung to port herself, making a recklessly tight turn. For a few moments it looked as if she would be able to spin and keep out of the starboard batteries’ gunnery arcs, but the angle of the Intrépide’s own gradual turn was sharp enough to allow the French cruiser’s long-range weapons to fire. The barrage came from the turrets and barbettes still in action. At least two of the larger shells found their mark, plowing into the Python’s armor belt. The holes they left billowed sickening black smoke from internal fires and damage. The destroyer seemed to vibrate visibly, even at the range between them. There were explosions taking place deep down inside the British ship.

The destroyer turned more and poured on steam, clearly attempting to put distance between her and the Intrépide. François craned his neck to look back and saw the enemy cruiser still moving in the same gentle, shallow arc, flying in the opposite direction.

“Your orders, mon Capitaine?” Lieutenant Miller asked. Weariness had replaced the bitterness in his voice.

It was tempting to go after the cruiser. François suspected her steering gear had been damaged—she had not altered course since the torpedo hit. With the destroyer fleeing the field of battle, the British cruiser would still be a tough nut to crack, but doable.

But we are not at war—not yet, anyway. Yes, the British had either sunk a French merchant or faked the distress call to lure the Intrépide out to the North Sea for the ambush. But their trap had backfired on them. To finish off one or both of the enemy vessels would only kill men senselessly. If this was war, he would not hesitate. But to do so now would be murder.

“We can finish off that cruiser,” Miller added, as if he could read his former junior officer’s thoughts.

“Qui. We could. But I have fulfilled Capitaine Guisarme’s last order to me. I suggest we execute the better part of valor and turn back home.” His injured leg throbbed as if to accentuate his words. He saw the piece of bloodied wood that had stuck in his leg lying on the deck. Almost without thought, he picked it up and put it in his pocket.

“What order was that, sir?” Dumont asked.

“It is time to get this mademoiselle back to port and tend to our injured.” For a moment, he felt his body sag under the weight of command.

To Be Continued…

Heavy Cruiser Intrépide
North Sea
8 September 1900
1425 hours

It took a long, painful two minutes for the Intrépide to arc around 180 degrees. Halfway through the turn, Lieutenant Miller entered the makeshift bridge. His uniform was torn, but he was alive. Where he had been for the last few minutes was something to be learned later. Part of François was happy to see his commanding officer, but that changed the moment Miller spoke. “What are you doing, Moreau? I was in the forward turret and heard you are in command?”

“Qui. Capitaine Guisarme turned over the ship to me,” he replied, not lifting his eyes from the enemy ship. He saw flashes of light from cannons firing just as shells hit his own ship. The Intrépide vibrated violently under the impacts from the Renown, so hard he almost fell over, but still the old mademoiselle was in the air…still in the fight.“I outrank you. I will assume command now,” Miller said. He closed the hatch behind him, cutting out the roar of the wind outside. From what François could see, wherever he had gotten to, he had been in a fight. Black smudges marked his face and his right hand was wrapped in a piece of cloth that served as a makeshift bandage.

“No. By the regulations, I am Capitaine until the engagement ends, I am dead, or I turn over command. I plan on none of that—not now,” he spat back. This was not the time for such a debate, and Miller ought to know it.

“This is not some test at La Borget, boy! Good men are dying below deck. We need to break off this engagement. We are being pummeled to scrap metal.”

“You will mind your tone. I am your Capitaine! We will not break off until I say so! If we try to get away now, they will stalk us like wolves. No, we fight here – now! Assume your station or I will have you relieved.”

Miller looked stunned. “They will court martial you for this, if we live.”

“I look forward to it,” François replied.

Miller’s face reddened as he moved stoically next to Dumont and took over at gunnery control. “Very well. Your orders, Capitaine?”

The Renown kept firing at will, but François’s own guns held their fire, his men awaiting orders. “Stand by the fire. All guns track your target carefully. Ready the aft torpedo launcher. After we fire our barrage, we will bank to starboard. I want that torpedo fired into the cruiser’s path.” The Intrépide shook again from another hit. We can’t take much more of this punishment, can we?

As if to accentuate that reality, a shell from the British cruiser landed near the fire control deck. The entire crew was knocked off their feet. The armored glass on the starboard side held, but was now horribly cracked. The exterior wall buckled from the explosion, only a few meters from where François had been standing.
As he started to move, a stab of pain wracked his left thigh. He looked down and saw a piece of teak, eight centimeters long, sticking out. Blood soaked his dark blue pants. Ignoring a jolt of fear, he gritted his teeth, reached down and pulled the massive splinter out. The wood had varnish on it, a piece of trim from the inner hand railing near the window. More modern ships removed much of the decorative wood trim for just this reason—a near miss could turn wood into shrapnel. Removing the piece of wood hurt intensely, but from the amount of blood he saw, no artery had been hit. He gingerly tested his leg. It ached, but he ignored it, relying more on his right leg. The rest of the gunnery crew clambered to their feet as well. Dumont bore a nasty bruise on his forehead from the fall. None had escaped injury.

The Intrepide and the British ship were at optimum range, passing each other by only 300 meters. François called out, “Fire!”

The entire cruiser rocked, as if she would roll over upside down. The electrode compensators adjusted her trim as the guns unleashed their iron hell on the British cruiser. Explosions raked the Renown from one end to another. Her aft turret took a hit, touching off the reserve powder. The explosion from within the ship shot a pillar of fire up where the turret had been, sending debris raining down to bitter North Sea below.

“Engine room, hard to starboard now! Bring us around 90 degrees. Adjust altitude up 100 meters, gradual.” François did not wait for them to respond. “Lieutenant Miller, prepare the aft torpedo—fire at her before she turns.”

Miller gave out the string of commands to the mouthpiece, then turned to the torpedo officer, Sous-lieutenant Lefevre. “Make your calculation now!” Black-haired Lefevre took out a brass disk and turned it, using a specially designed eyeglass to determine the angles of both of the ships. The brass disk had a cover that allowed him to turn and make the necessary calculations to fire. It took a painfully long few seconds for him to spin the disk, take notes, spin again, take a sighting and scribble more notes. Then he spoke to Lieutenant Miller. “I have the fire angle for the torpedo ready, sir.”

“Fire torpedo,” François said. Miller passed the command down to the torpedo crew. Turning to the rear armored window, François saw the aerial torpedo take off, a wisp of white smoke trailing it. He snapped his head to watch the destroyer in front of him and the torpedo simultaneously, giving each a millisecond at a time. The destroyer was opening up with everything she had, but half her shots missed and those that hit did not have the penetration power to do serious damage. The Intrépide shook off the hits as if they were harmless.

The torpedo was another matter. At the sight of its approach, the British ship attempted to turn, but the laws of physics were in play. Given her speed, the Renown could not bank around too quickly. There was simply not enough time to avoid the incoming weapon. As the British cruiser began to turn, the torpedo slammed into her lower steering gear. The explosion sent parts of her rudder raining downward to the sea below.

With the cruiser heading in the opposite direction, François concentrated on the Python. “It is time we dealt that that annoyance,” he said. “Engine Room,” he called into the communications tube. “I need a turn of 60 degrees to port, now!”

To Be Continued…

Heavy Cruiser Intrépide
North Sea
8 September 1900
1425 hours

François saw that the binnacle had been torn asunder. Along with the scent of cordite was another smell, awareness of which he fought to suppress: the odor of cooking meat. Through the haze of thinning smoke, he could see the helm was twisted by the impact of the shell; the giant wheel was no more than broken pieces of wood scattered around the remains of the shattered bridge. There was no way to steer the ship from the bridge, not now. The ship quaked again, followed by the boom of British cannon. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the British cruiser was now moving. Cutting in the other direction from behind it, masked by the smoke of her engines, was a destroyer. Two ships!

He grabbed the Enseigne and shook him hard to get his focus. “Get him to the infirmary!” he yelled as he made his way to the staircase. François was now in command of the Intrépide—but how long could they last against two enemy ships?* * * * *

As François entered fire control, he barked to Dumont, “All guns, fire at will! Target that cruiser first.” Dumont and Bechtel immediately relayed the commands through their mouthpieces to the turrets. The aging Intrépide roared in response, firing as the British cruiser started to get underway. Her trap had been laid almost perfectly. Now it was up to François Moreau to get them out of it.

With the bridge helm gone, the ship could still be steered from engineering. François grabbed the mouthpiece that relayed orders to the engineering section. “This is Sous-lieutenant François Moreau. The Capitaine has turned over the ship to me. The bridge is out of action. You will need to pilot the ship from steerage.”

The earhorn crackled back. “Who is this?”

“Capitaine Moreau!” François said through gritted teeth. “You heard me right. I am in command. Flank speed immediately. Order the auxiliary helm to turn us 30 degrees to starboard. Do it now.”

“Qui, mon Capitaine!” came acknowledgement from the Enseigne decks below him. The Intrépide surged forward with a burst of speed. Slowly, methodically, she began to turn to port.

“What ships are we facing?” François called to the lookout, who was watching the British ships through his binoculars.

“The cruiser appears to be the Renown, sir. The destroyer, she is the Python… Capitaine,” the lookout replied. François’s mind danced. He knew the ships and their classes. All those late nights spent memorizing the statistics of the British fleet had paid off. The Renown was a new ship, only christened two years ago. The Python was well known to the French. Her Capitaine, Andrew Rivenburg, was infamous for his aggressive tactics. It was not his first dance at the ball.

“Someone run to the wireless shack and send a message back to Brest. Let them know who we are facing here. Let them know we have been lured into a trap.” It would not make much difference. By the time the rest of the squadron got the word and turned about, the engagement would be long over.

The forward turrets fired and François’s injured ear ached for a moment with the explosions of the cannons. Using his binoculars, he saw at least one of the shells plunge into the upper deck of the British cruiser. An explosion threw pieces of teak into the air and smoke rolled from the hole just in front of the enemy’s forward turret.

The faster-moving Python was getting up steam as well, swinging around to come behind him, hoping to cross his T from the aft. For now, he was more concerned about the British cruiser. He was already putting distance between the Intrépide and the destroyer, but with her speed that was a short-lived hope. Her shorter range guns would only be able to get in a lucky shot or two. The Renown, on the other hand…

His thoughts were shattered as the ship rocked hard again from two shells that slammed into her port armor belt. The boom of the British guns followed a second later. François moved to the exterior hatch and opened it, leaning out to see the damage for himself. There was no smoke…hopefully the armor had held. Looking around the ship, he muttered to himself, “If you are going to make it through one more scrap, mademoiselle, let it be this one…”

The Renown started a turn towards him, matching his own turn. She aimed to keep in close. François wasted no time. Returning to his communications tube, he called out, “Engineering—damage report.” His voice was almost drowned out as the Intrépide’s secondary barbette turrets opened up at maximum range.

It took a long few seconds for someone to respond, and as they did they coughed hard. They are fighting their own kind of war down below decks, François thought. “We’ve taken a hit in coal bin number three,” came the voice of the engineer. “There is a fire there, so we are going to dump the reserves before it gets out of control. Other than that, we have a hole on the aft deck. Damage control crews are working that fire.”

“Dump the reserve,” François replied. He watched as the aft turrets of the Intrépide roared with another barrage. The British ship took a hit in her electrode tanks on the side, the impact gnarling the external piping tubes and making the ship rock hard. He studied where the ships were in relation to each other. His own vessel was in front in their race, but the Renown was catching up. He tuned out the chatter of the fire control officers measuring distances and calculating angles and powder charges. If he did a tight turn to port, he might be able to cross the T of the enemy ship…

The Intrépide rocked from a strike to her aft. Running to the rear of the fire control deck, François saw that the Python had scored a lucky hit. Gray-black smoke, whipped in the wind, was billowing from the aft turret. For now, it was apparently out of action. “We’ve lost number three. Get damage control teams down there now.” The last thing he needed was a magazine fire, which could take out a ship in a matter of seconds.

“Engine room. Swing us 90 degrees to port,” he yelled into the communications tube. “Dumont. Have all port batteries load and take aim as we make the sweep in front of him. Await my command before firing.”

The ship gracefully arced to port. François watched as the British cruiser attempted to turn to counter, then changed his mind and swung starboard instead. Suddenly, it was the Intrépide’s T that was going to be crossed, to the aft where her guns were out of action.

“Engine room, bring us 180 degrees to port now!” François turned to the gunnery officer. “Dumont. New orders. Starboard batteries, load. All turrets swing to starboard and wait for my order.” Now the two ships were going to pass right by each other. And looming in the distance, the British destroyer Python, toward which he was heading after the turn completed.

To Be Continued…

Heavy Cruiser Intrépide
North Sea
8 September 1900
1425 hours

Sous-Lieutenant aérien François Moreau stared out of the armored glass window of the fire control deck aboard the Intrépide, wondering where his career had gone so wrong. He had been one of the top students at the École d’Aviation, the Aviation School for the French fleet seven months earlier. He and his friends had a bet as to who would be the first of their class to captain a Gany in the name of France. It looked as if he was not even in contention.

His posting to the cruiser Intrépide seemed promising; she was a heavy cruiser, after all. But the positive aspects ended there. His classmates had been posted to newer ships, with the latest technologies. Fast, sleek ships that garnered quick career advancement. François had been assigned to one of the oldest ships in the French fleet. The entire Intrépide-class was being retired from service, in fact, with only the namesake ship remaining on active duty. The others had been scrapped or sold to some South American country. Many in the fleet now saw this once grand old mademoiselle as an obsolete rust bucket. His posting here was no career advancement for François; it was a slap in the face. He was not sure who he had insulted in the high command or what he had done, but he was surely paying the price for some crime—real or perceived.

Now the ship was slipping out over the North Sea. A wireless message had come in from a French seagoing merchant vessel that it was under attack. The merchant ship was silent now, but she had managed to give her position before going quiet. Capitaine Guisarme believed it was a trap, a typical English trick. Still, the merchant vessel was listed on the French registry and the English were not the only enemies of France that flew the skies over the North Sea. The Boche also were known to go after French seagoing ships, striking like jackals if they could get away with it. The signal had come eight hours after the rest of the squadron began its patrol route along the coast, leaving only the Intrépide poised to investigate. No doubt spies in port relayed this information. They must have known that we were alone.

They had been in the air for six hours without a sign or signal from the allegedly distressed vessel. François held his post as junior gunnery control officer. He enjoyed the job, if not the posting. At least from fire control, he had a good view of any battle that might start. Many junior officers found themselves posted to roles in the bowels of the ship. They experienced battle as a series of rocking explosions, the sound of groaning metal, and possibly sudden death.

The lookouts sounded an alarm when they spotted the smoke in the distance. There was a Gany out there, another cruiser, hanging in the air. She wasn’t moving, just hovering a thousand meters over the turbulent seas. An ominous sign, according to Lieutenant aérien Miller, the chief gunnery officer. The Capitaine had said the mystery ship was right over the position from which the seagoing French merchant vessel had sent its last message.

“That is a lot of smoke for a cruiser to be putting out,” François said as he lowered his binoculars.

“Perhaps she is damaged,” Gunnery Enseigne Bechtel said, with a hint of enthusiasm that François tried to ignore.

François shook his head. “I don’t think so. Something isn’t right.”

“The Capitaine knows what he is doing,” Bechtel replied. “He has commanded this old girl for eight years. You must learn to trust him.” He patted the hand rail at this station as if he were comforting a female companion.

François turned away from the window. “I do trust him, I just—”

The entire ship rocked under an explosion which made his right ear pop. His words were cut off as he toppled to the floor of the fire control deck. He picked himself up, wiping his upper lip. His fingers came back reddened; his nose was bleeding.

“We’ve been hit!” Enseigne Bechtel hollered from his post, where he communicated with the forward turrets.

“General quarters,” François said. “Alert your turrets to prepare to fire. Dumont,” he called to the assistant gunnery officer, “contact the bridge. Get authorization to fire.” He wondered where Lieutenant Miller was, his commanding officer. A hell of a time not to be in fire control.

Sous-Lieutenant Dumont called into his mouthpiece several times but got no response. “The bridge is not responding.”

Damn. “I will go to the bridge and run relay. Dumont, you have fire control. All guns, prepare for action!” François grabbed one of the thick leather belts and a hooking harness, strapping it on. You didn’t dare run out on a deck without one, especially in battle. The North Sea was a long way down.

He opened the exterior hatch to make the climb up the stairs to the bridge and was immediately hit by a stinging blast of cold air. There was no time to put on his overcoat— the ship was under attack! He looked upward towards the bridge and was stunned by what he saw. At the top of the stairs was a jumble of gnarled and twisted metal, billowing smoke. The bridge had been hit! Using his snap hook line on the safety rail, he made his way up to see just how bad the damage was.

The deck was slick, and in a second he realized it was with blood. The bitter taste of cordite stung his nostrils as the coppery taste of his own bloody nose drizzled on his lip. The bridge crew was scattered about like a child’s dolls tossed carelessly in a toy box. An Enseigne cradled Capitaine Guisarme in his lap. The Capitaine’s face was smeared with blood and his left arm was broken, the bone sticking through his torn uniform coat.

François leaned over him, “Mon Capitaine!”

Guisarme’s eyes opened and he focused sharply on François’s face. “You must take command,” he said firmly, as if summoning his reserves of strength to fulfill his duty. With his good arm, he grabbed at François’s uniform lapel and pulled him closer. He winced in pain for a moment, then it passed. His face grew pale beneath his white hair as he fought to keep a fragment of consciousness. “Make France proud,” he said, and then his head lolled back.

To Be Continued…

The Black Swan

23 September 1909

The unnamed man moved quickly between the tables and chairs in the ramshackle bar, a well known hangout for the officers and crew of the French gany fleet. This job made very little sense, but the pay was good, and at the end of the day, a little more smuggling wouldn’t hurt anyone. Smoke hung in the air, assaulting his nostrils in a pleasant onslaught. It reminded him of his native Marseilles, though the people there were more friendly than these jumped-up sailors. That was true sailing, on the open ocean. He sat down at an unoccupied table and gestured to the serving girl for a cognac. The pay was very good.

Five or so minutes later, one of the officers moved past him, gesturing at the unoccupied chair opposite him. “Is this seat taken, monsieur?”

The unnamed man waved generously, and gestured for the other to sit down. “Non, monsieur, please sit down.”

The officer did as instructed, doffing his cap onto the table. “A friend of mine said I should talk with you, monsieur.” He tapped the side of his nose lightly. “About a little business transaction.”

The unnamed man nodded and then pulled an envelope full of francs out of his pocket and into his lap, making sure to keep it under the table. With his free hand, he gestured at the officer’s hat. “That is an interesting hat, monsieur, may I look at it?”

The other nodded his assent. The unnamed man pulled the hat towards him, clumsily knocking it off the table and into his lap. Deftly, he stuffed the envelope into the hat and handed it back. “Thank you, monsieur, it is always nice to meet a gentleman.” He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. He slid it slowly across the table. The other man grabbed for it, then looked surprised when the unnamed man’s snakelike reflexes stopped his hand in the air. “On your next patrol, monsieur, please don’t be there. If it goes well, perhaps you will be seeing me again?”

The officer nodded, grabbed the paper and his hat, and quickly got up from the chair, rubbing his wrist. The unnamed man smiled and took another long sip of cognac.

Yes, very well paid indeed.

* * * *

Chatsworth House

24 September 1909

“Sir, there is a phone call from your tailor in Paris. He says the adjustments are fine, and he will send the coat as soon as it is ready.”

Devon Cavendish smiled. “That’s excellent Geoffrey. Thank you.”

The End