Genesis of Antimony - Softcover

Carpenter, S.D.M.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1945507934 ISBN 13: 9781945507939

Publisher: Clovercroft Publishing, 2018

Synopsis

November 1915 – HMS Halberd, while protecting a collier convoy, confronts a German cruiser. Through a gallant attempt, the convoy is saved, but the doughty little destroyer is outgunned and sunk. Only a few sailors survive, including Lieutenant John Braithwaite. Wounded and unfit for sea duty, Naval Intelligence Division (NID) recruits him for field work based on his knowledge of East Africa and fluency in German. The mission – discover the secret of the mysterious enemy light cruiser SMS Aachen operating out of German East Africa, which is devastating British shipping. How is Aachen always able to find targets? How does she always evade the Royal Navy? Arriving in Zanzibar, he meets the beautiful and charming Alice, code name MINSTREL, a widow serving as NID’s resident agent. Going aboard the enemy cruiser disguised as a native laborer, Braithwaite discovers references to “The Machine” and charts marked with the term “Station Wilhelm” located in the heart of Africa on Lake Nyasa. Together, Braithwaite and MINSTREL travel up the Zambezi River in search of the Aachen’s secret, but they must battle the elements as well as the Germans as they go deep into the Dark Continent.

About this title

About the Author

S.D.M. Carpenter, retired US Navy Captain, Professor of Strategy, and Command Historian at the US Naval War College in Newport, Rhode Island, holds Doctorate and Master’s degrees in British History specializing in military and naval history as well as in the twentieth-century world wars. Widely published on the seventeenth-century British Civil Wars, the American Revolution, and World Wars I and II, Professor Carpenter used his background as an historian and naval officer to craft a World War I historical novel of espionage, intrigue, and danger on the high seas and in East Africa.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Genesis of Antimony

By S. D. M. Carpenter, Lapez Digital Services

Clovercroft Publishing

Copyright © 2018 S. D. M. Carpenter
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-945507-93-9

CHAPTER 1

A Valiant Little Warship

18 November 1914. The North Sea.

"Smoke on the horizon! Ninety degrees off the port bow, bearing ... wait ... bearing 270 degrees. Contact unknown!"

"Action Stations, Mr. Braithwaite!" came the crisp order from the captain who had just come onto the flying bridge at the top of the ship's conning tower.

"Aye, aye, Sir." The officer of the watch (O.O.W.) turned to the seaman and nodded. Without a word and with a piercing cry of the boatswain's pipe, he called the ship to battle stations. "All hands to action stations! All hands to action stations! All hands to action stations!"

With a clanging of hatches and heavy leather shoes scrambling across cold metal deck plates, HMS Halberd prepared for battle. Sailors just off watch rolled out of hammocks, bare feet hitting the decks, arms flailing to pull on shoes and uniforms. As sailors reached their battle stations, the clanking of wrenches reverberated about the spaces as they dogged down hatches and secured scuttles. Petty officers shouted orders as gun mounts and torpedo stations came to life. Below in the engine spaces, stokers pulled on their gloves, prepared to fire the boilers with more coal. Speed would be needed.

"Signals, bridge."

"Yeoman, aye," came the tinny voice in reply.

"Make a signal to all ships. Investigating contact. Make best speed and proceed on assigned course." Within seconds, signal flags fluttered up the halyards in the stiffening, cold, November sea breeze.

"All stations report manned and ready," shouted the sailor from the opposite side of the flying bridge.

"Very good," responded the captain. The O.O.W. marveled at the "old man's" calm demeanor and matter-of-factness. The captain raised his binoculars, scanning for any further contacts. None. A ship's mast broke the horizon as a setting sun illuminated the waves. The O.O.W. stared, transfixed by the water's calmness despite the freshening breeze.

"Mr. Braithwaite, what do you see?"

"Nothing yet, Sir. She could be one of ours or perhaps a German," he responded.

The captain merely nodded, and, with the calm voice of authority honed by years of sea service, issued the orders to intercept. "Set course 075, 20 knots."

Braithwaite gave the order crisply, "Helm, Port 20 degrees, come to course 075. Engines ahead for 20 knots."

The helmsman responded as the ship's wheel whirled to the left. "20 degrees Port, aye."

As Halberd picked up speed, a white foamy bow wake formed. The destroyer heeled to port. Lieutenant John David Fairchild Braithwaite had seen some minor action before in this new war of the 20th century. The doughty, stout little destroyer had earned her battle spurs in action in earlier engagements that late summer and early autumn against German raiders of the Kaiserliche Marine (Imperial German Navy) attempting to either shell port cities or interdict maritime traffic along Britain's North Sea coast. But somehow, someway, this action seemed different, as if two mounted knights prepared to charge at each other at full gallop. He felt a queasiness in his gut — one that he had not even felt in his first action at sea the previous August. He squinted into the gathering dusk, fearful for what he might see.

The unknown interloper looked to be in a wide turn clearly planning to intercept the collier convoy making steam for the safety of a nearby port. Its lookouts had spotted the multiple smoke plumes to the west. As the steamers read the escort's signal, each collier poured on the coals for maximum speed — the speed of flight. Halberd, now coming up to battle speed, raced to intercept the intruder on what had been to this moment, a routine convoy run down from Newcastle to the Thames.

"Port 10," Braithwaite calmly ordered as the helm quickly responded. The captain's quiet demeanor infected the anxious bridge watch with an amazing calmness despite the inward racing of heartbeats and beads of nervous perspiration welling up on foreheads and cheeks. For some, this would be their first action should the unidentified contact prove to be an enemy. Braithwaite marveled at the captain's incredible calm in the face of perilous combat, certain death, and destruction.

"Bridge, lookout," shouted the anxious seaman into the voice tube from the foretop lookout station as the intruder's funnels and upper superstructure came into better view.

"Bridge, aye," responded the captain as he leaned over the brightly polished brass speaking tube. "She looks like a cruiser, Sir. Can't make the class yet."

Before the lookout had even finished his report, Braithwaite started flipping through the pages of the enemy recognition book kept permanently at the O.O.W.'s station. Braithwaite shouted into the voice tube that led up the mast to the men with the best position for observation. He knew that the entire ship would know the interloper's nature soon enough. "Very good. Stay on her."

Braithwaite stared at the stoic commanding officer who, showing no emotion whatsoever, relit his briarwood pipe. "Could be a bad night, Mr. Braithwaite. A bad night, indeed." The O.O.W. could only muster an acknowledging nod. The young naval officer knew as much. A bad night, indeed.

Collingwood, the teenaged sub-lieutenant, as the Junior Officer of the Watch, barely out of public school, but already well-seasoned, had been tracking the contact in silence, and finally had a solution to report. "Contact bears 045 degrees. Estimated course 220, speed, 14 knots."

"Very good. Well, Mr. Braithwaite, it looks as if she intends to parallel us and close slightly. Let's close with her and let our colliers put some distance between." As the orders rang about the bridge, the destroyer raced to intercept the interloper. Torpedo tubes cranked out pointing to starboard, readied for launch. At the forward gun mount, a young sailor, trembling, rammed in a round, then looked over at the chief petty officer, who in the best stoic tradition of His Majesty's senior noncommissioned officers, nodded in approval. Halberd reached 20 knots, closing rapidly to a firing position.

"Contact bears 020 degrees off the starboard bow, range ...," the sub-lieutenant paused to re-check his calculation, "... range 10,000 yards. She looks to be a Kolberg-class light cruiser." In the distance, a white smoke puff from the contact signaled the fight had begun. The first rounds landed perilously close. Salt spray covered the fantail.

"This German knows his business," remarked the captain in obvious admiration. "Mr. Braithwaite, come right 20 degrees." The captain meant to close to torpedo range. Braithwaite stepped to the railing and gripped it tight, knuckles white with tension. The nervous anticipation never changed no matter how many times he had seen this before. He strode back to the chart table and opened the enemy recognition book.

"If she's a Kolberg, that beast has — let's see, 4.1-inchers — two forward and two aft with twelve total, plus 5-pounders. Torpedoes as well. Max speed looks to be 25 knots on all boilers." Braithwaite laid down the book and snapped the binoculars to his eyes. "More smoke. Looks like she is laying on the coal and coming up to speed."

The old man crossed his arms and grunted — a low, guttural acknowledgment as he nodded in agreement. "Come right another 30 degrees. Let's close the range."

"Right 30 degrees, aye." Halberd lurched and heeled over as the rudder bit. The sudden jerk threw Braithwaite slightly off balance. He clutched the railing and steadied himself. A moving target is hard to hit, and a zigzag pattern served them well until the destroyer reached their guns' effective range.

"Range to target?"

"I make her 9,000 yards and closing," responded the sub-lieutenant, calipers and dividers working furiously across the chart table.

"Mr. Braithwaite, I trust that your gunners know their business."

"Aye, Sir. They are the best gunners in the fleet." They are the best. In the tradition of the old navy, Braithwaite drilled the men every day, hour upon hour until each man knew his job by instinct. If a man went down, the next one stepped in and took over the functions. He served not only as the ship's navigator but also as the gunnery officer. They were the best, they were his men, his crew, his gunners. He trusted them implicitly. They were up to snuff now; the drill would tell.

"Let us hope so. Let us hope," responded the captain. He smiled and raised his eyebrows knowingly.

Amazing, simply amazing, thought Braithwaite. In the face of such great peril, the man's calm demeanor was truly astounding. It was a characteristic Braithwaite intended to emulate — that is if he survived.

"Where is the convoy, Adams?"

"Over the horizon, Sir," responded the lead yeoman of signals from next to the flag bag aft of the flying bridge, where he had been watching the colliers' retreat.

More white frothy splashes straddled Halberd from the cruiser's second volley. The water kicked high in the air by the blast rained down on the forecastle. "Damned close," mumbled Braithwaite as he snapped the binoculars back up to his eyes. He could now make out figures on the cruiser's open bridge.

"Both torpedo stations report trained to starboard and ready," shouted the sub-lieutenant.

"Very good," responded the captain, arms folded across his chest in an almost casual fashion. "Mr. Braithwaite, we will close to about 2,000 yards and fire two torpedoes simultaneously. Our 4-inchers should disrupt his firing solution to let us get in close to the bastard. I'll take the conn." Braithwaite concurred. His job now was to coordinate the fire control for Halberd's three 4-inch guns, one forward and two aft on the centerline. "Starboard 20 degrees."

"Starboard 20 degrees, aye," came the swift reply from the helmsman.

Halberd lurched hard, her boilers at full blast, turbines spinning at maximum RPM. Propellers bit into the cold North Sea throwing up great clouds of white foam and froth. Halberd surged into the fray.

"We'll open fire at 6,000 yards and give the Hun a lesson in British gunnery, eh Braithwaite!"

"Very good, Sir," shouted Braithwaite over the gathering whine of the hard-charging engines.

The captain grabbed the speaking megaphone, strode to the bridge rail, and leaned over, megaphone raised to his lips. "Commence firing at 6,000 yards when you have the range, chief."

The gunner's mate chief shouted up in response, "Aye, aye, Sir!"

"Mr. Collingwood, pass that word to the gun mounts, if you please." The sub-lieutenant nodded and shouted the orders into the speaking tube that ran to the two gun mounts, one forward and one aft of the forward torpedo tubes. The captain gently snapped the megaphone back into its holder and stood erect.

Horatio at the bridge, thought Braithwaite in singular admiration. "The time has come, the walrus spoke, to speak of many things. Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings." He wasn't quite sure why the line from Lewis Carroll's Alice Through the Looking Glass suddenly struck him as appropriate. But indeed, the time had now come as the destroyer charged toward the enemy. He jabbed a hand into the side pocket of his greatcoat and slowly turned his lucky guinea over and over, gently stroking the coin's smooth surface. His father had given him the coin for good luck the day he received his commission in His Majesty's Royal Navy.

"Port 10 degrees!"

"Port 10 degrees, aye!" came the helmsman's crisp reply, already spinning the ship's wheel back to the left. The shift back to port unmasked the two guns in the aft part of the ship and also dramatically changed the enemy gunners' firing solution. Another salvo from the cruiser landed far astern, safely behind the destroyer's fantail.

"Good. We have broken down his firing solution," whispered the captain to himself, breaking into a slight grin.

At mount "A" forward of the conning tower, the gunner, his right hand gripping the firing trigger, felt a small bead of sweat form on his brow. He swatted it away with his free hand. "Bugger all. No time for bloody worry," he cursed under his breath.

"6,500 yards. Off the starboard bow," came the word from an ever-increasingly anxious, but outwardly calm, Sub-Lieutenant Collingwood.

"Very good," responded the captain. "Well, John, here's to all the men who have gone before. Best of luck, lad. Make Horatio Nelson proud today," The captain admonished as he swiftly moved in behind Braithwaite. The sudden comment startled him as a nervous anticipation began to tell despite this being the next in a line of actual engagements over the preceding months. "Action, once more. God be with us!"

"6,000 yards," shouted the sub-lieutenant again from the opposite side of the bridge. The captain nodded and strode over to the forward bulkhead. Grabbing the megaphone in one quick thrust, he leaned over the railing and shouted, "Commence firing. Fire when ready!"

At almost the same time, Braithwaite popped open the voice tube to the two aft guns and gave the order to open fire on the enemy intruder. At that moment, the first round struck. It had to happen. The superior German fire control system and optics meant that Halberd, despite the captain's dodging and weaving, would be hit eventually. The German gunners were simply too good, too professional, too well drilled. The 4.1-inch round struck just aft the third smoke funnel near the after torpedo station. It plowed through the thin metal hull and exploded in a crew berthing compartment with a whump, causing a shutter throughout the ship. Braithwaite turned toward the captain. The imperturbable man showed no outward expression, but Braithwaite must have known that the captain inwardly seethed. No ship's commanding officer would feel otherwise. War generates rage and hatred, the necessary emotions for any warrior facing an implacable enemy. But, the captain never moved, never wavered, never flinched. In a calm voice, he simply gave his next order. "Steady as she goes. Rudder amidships."

"Rudder amidships, aye," shouted the now highly animated helmsman as his hand on the wheel felt clammy with nervous fear. It was the young quartermaster's first action. It was many of the Halberd crew's first action.

By straightening out the course to the exact opposite of the enemy, the captain had placed the destroyer in a position relative to the cruiser that only allowed the German to bring the two forward starboard side guns to bear on Halberd, thus reducing the advantage in gunnery. It also allowed for a close-in torpedo shot where any real damage would result if their aim was true. Fortunately, no one was hurt or killed as the exploding round hit an empty compartment. All the crew were at their various action stations, fully girded for battle. Braithwaite knew in his soul that this was only the first scene of a long and deadly duel. On the forecastle, a gun retorted. Acrid cordite odor blew over the open bridge. Braithwaite had smelled this odor on many, many occasions both in training and action and knew it well. His nostrils flared; his right hand trembled. It was a common reaction brought on more by nervous energy than fear.

Their initial 4-inch round landed well short of the target, but it was merely the first of many shots. Halberd's gunners would soon find the target. He had drilled them day and night for any situation. Another enemy round landed close aboard. Salt spray careened over the open bridge. At "A" gun mount, the chief gunner's mate placed a soothing hand on the nervous gunner's shoulder as the loader slammed another round into the breach. "There, there, steady, lad." The chief knew that the backbone of every military organization is its senior noncommissioned leaders. He would not let the men down despite his own queasiness and dread. As the ship rolled to port, the gunner saw the enemy cruiser, dead in his sites. No arching ballistics needed now; it was a straight-on shot at close range as Halberd pulled parallel with the German. He squeezed the trigger and a 4-inch shell boomed as it left the muzzle. Seconds later, a cloud of ugly, orange smoke erupted from the cruiser's amidships just below the forward mast. A hit! A hit! A loud cheer erupted from the men along the destroyer's starboard side who saw the result of the well-placed shot. On the flying bridge, the captain smiled and nodded in appreciation. A hit, indeed. And so it went for several minutes as David zigged and zagged about the larger, less maneuverable Goliath. All the while, the captain angled Halberd closer and closer to the enemy. At 2,000 yards, he would let loose the main battery of 21-inch torpedoes and counted on speed to avoid the cruiser's own torpedoes.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Genesis of Antimony by S. D. M. Carpenter, Lapez Digital Services. Copyright © 2018 S. D. M. Carpenter. Excerpted by permission of Clovercroft Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Clovercroft Publishing
• Publication date: 2018
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1945507934
• ISBN 13: 9781945507939
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 336