North Sea near Fisher Banks – May 26, 1908, 1300 Local
Rear Admiral Quimby scowled as he looked at the noon report. The convoy had been late forming off Norway’s southern ports, late pushing into the North Sea, and then had swung distinctly southwest. Finally on track and heading the right direction they were moving slower than anticipated, making barely eight knots as it crept north.
The ground offensive in northern Norway had picked up speed with the coming of spring, but was consuming tremendous amounts of food, ammunition, and medical supplies. A dozen ships had finally left Kristiansand yesterday morning, escorted by a Royal Norwegian Navy force and the American destroyers Truxtun and Preble. The Norwegians had peeled off at dawn and Quimby’s force took over.
Quimby had received several reports that the Russians were mounting a major effort to interdict the convoy. The Danes and Swedes, officially neutral, hadn’t hindred a battleship division and their consorts passing Copenhagen and Helsingborg last week. But the Danes had spoken to the French and that piece of information had made its tortuous way to Quimby. He’d also been told of a cruiser squadron out of Archangel, and Icelandic fishermen had met their Glouscester counterparts on the Flemish Cap and passed on similar news.
Quimby had sortied a large portion of his squadron in hopes of bringing them to battle. He’d have liked another few battleships or big cruisers but they were up north supporting the Army and Marines. His favored command ship, Louisville, was with them, so Quimby had shipped his flag aboard Indiana. He’d also have liked a few more destroyers for screening duties but it had been a bad year for the tin cans. Three were lost and two more badly damaged in the Alta campaign, and two more bound from the US to Europe were lost at Cape Portland last month.
Quimby climbed from the command bridge to the expansive platform above and scanned the horizon with his binoculars. The convoy’s smoke was just visible to the south, drifting lazily in the still air. Not knowing where the Russians could be lurking, they were sweeping a broad circle around the lumbering supply ships. Barely hull-up ahead was the armored cruiser division, led by Worcester, tracking back toward the convoy. On the distant flanks he could see Providence, Denver, and Newark forming an outer search line. He considered climbing further, to the lookout platform forty feet above, but decided instead to head to his sea cabin and work on some of the never-ending paperwork of running the squadron.
He managed to get through one folder of supply forms and a cup of nearly cold coffee, left over from lunch, when there was a knock at his open door. The ship’s bell started sounding at the same time, and he heard Captain Faulkner ordering the ship to General Quarters.
********
“OK, enough,” said Lieutenant Commander Kenneth Hardin, walking into Denver’s crowded wireless space. Two bluejackets, both previously squaring up to throw punches, instantly snapped to attention on the XO’s entrance. “I don’t honestly care which of you started it, trouble ashore should have stayed there. Johnson, you’re a fifteen-year veteran. And Tomkins, you’ve had a very promising start to your career. Don’t throw it away over some Norwegian barmaid neither of you are going to see again.”
“We don’t flog in the Navy anymore,” he continued, “And the time you’ve spent in the brig clearly hasn’t been enough to cool you off. Johnson, report to Engineering. We have coal that needs shoveling. Tomkins, you’ll be joining the Quartermaster for a chipping and painting detail. You’re both dismissed.”
The two enlisted men saluted and turned without a word, shooting glares at each other as they exited the compartment and walked in opposite directions. Hardin shook his head and turned to the remaining man in the space. “Foster, it looks like you’re our senior radio man for the time being. I’ll send two more to man the equipment for the rest of the watch.”
The ship’s bell rang General Quarters and Hardin walked quickly back to the bridge. He met Commander Thomas Benson there, coming from his cabin. The skipper looked paler than normal and was sweating despite the cool afternoon. “Are you ok, sir?” Hardin asked quietly.
“Something I ate,” answered Benson, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. That had been his answer most of the last week. Louder, he asked “What did we find?”
The deck officer responded “Sir, mast reports one contact just north of west, right on the bow.”
“Very good,” the CO answered. “Steady on course and bring us to full speed. Signal the flag that we’re investigating.”
The Denver’s engines began to churn louder and black smoke poured from the ship’s three funnels. Denver and her sisters in the search line spotted several more ships and identified the larger of them as Russian armored cruisers. Then the nearest, a Rossiya-class, spewed orange flame as he opened up with his nine-inch guns.
The shells were wide and long, arcing past the Denver to explode harmlessly behind her and to port. The Rossiya fired again, her seven-inch secondaries joining in, and this time Denver shuddered with at least one hit. Benson wavered, grabbed a stanchion for support, and collapsed to the deck.
“Get a Corpsman up here,” shouted Hardin. “And damn it all, open fire!”
********
On Indiana’s flag bridge, Quimby glanced between the plotting table and the view outside. The picture was quite clear, his scout cruisers engaged with a lone Russian armored cruiser who must have been acting in a similar capacity, and two separate bodies of warships following to the west and a bit south of west. He assumed the smaller, nearer group was another cruiser and his consorts, and the larger group was most likely the main body.
“Recall the search line,” he ordered, “And signal Worcester to pour on the coal.” The three St Louis-class cruisers could likely overwhelm the sole Russian they were facing but there was no sense in leaving them out on their own and risking them unsupported against the Russian’s central force. Their main body was continuing on a collision course with his battleships and he wanted his armored cruisers, currently well back toward the convoy, to come up with the action too. If this turned into a pursuit he had every confidence the cruisers could run down whatever their opponent had to offer.
“Sir, called a plotting officer, “The Rossiya is following the scouts.”
“Outstanding,” Quimby answered. His squadron had standing orders that unless they were told otherwise they were to fire on anything that came in range. Within a few minutes, Indiana and Michigan behind her were able to bring their forward turrets to bear on the Rossiya and they began firing the heavy guns. In the meantime, the range to the Russian main body had closed enough to distinguish two Petropavlovsk-class and one Slava-class battleship. The Slava was roughly a match for either of his battleships, and while the Petropavlovsk was an older design it was still a three-on-two fight.
Quimby watched the Russians started edging south and as he mentally calculated distances and speeds, a plan formed. “We’re going to continue as we are for another ten minutes, then turn hard south. Signal Worcester to angle a bit more southerly and join in line ahead of us.” A degree of sailor’s superstition prevented him saying so aloud, but they might just be able to cross the Russian’s tee.
The fleet turned south, as planned, and the cruisers joined in a neat line a few thousand yards ahead. For another fifteen minutes it looked as though the Russians were going to cooperate, but just as the first American twelve-inch shells began landing among the Russian battleships, they turned their own column to a parallel course and opened fire.
An ugly slugging match ensued with both sides pouring out fire from six thousand yards. Saratoga was first to suffer, a twelve-inch shell from a Petropavlovsk slamming deep into the ship before exploding against a bulkhead between boiler room and engine room, shattering a dozen pipes and flooding both spaces with superheated steam. Saratoga sagged to port, falling out of line and losing speed, and Whipple followed to cover her, but the battle raged on.
The remaining Toledo-class cruisers, having shed their older, slower cousin, accelerated and started to outpace the Russian battle line. The Russians were beginning to lose order, with a Varyag-class cruiser suffering a hail of medium-caliber hits and falling back himself.
Quimby looked at the plot and judged the moment right. He would hold back one destroyer division to screen his own force and send the other two to attack the ends of the Russian line. “Order the destroyers in, Divisions Nine and Eleven,” he called.
********
“All ahead flank, bring us to two two five,” called Lieutenant Commander Walter Davis. “Signal O’Brien and Jones to stand in with us. Our target is that cruiser that’s dropped out of line.”
Talbot surged, along with her two sister ships, and turned southeast to intercept the Russians. Large-caliber shells from both fleets arced overhead as they closed the distance for eight interminable minutes. Lighterr shells from the Russians started reaching out for the destroyers as the Russians saw the danger. To the south Davis saw the Russian battle line turn west en masse, running away from the other destroyer flotilla while hammering at them with their secondary and tertiary batteries.
Closer by the O’Brien, two hundred yards to port, came through a fountain of seawater as a salvo of seven-inch shells from the Varyag fell around her. When she emerged from the cascade her aft funnel was laying across the adjacent torpedo tube and she was already starting to lose speed.
Talbot came under fire next, two cruisers on the far side of the Russian formation scoring glancing blows that came to no consequence. Davis ordered minor course variations to throw off the enemy gunners, all three destroyers in the division jinking their way toward firing position.
Davis looked aft to see his torpedomen standing ready at the launchers, waiting for the opportune moment. All three tubes in succession blew out clouds of steam, the fish leaping into the water and trailing a stream of bubbles as they accelerated toward the damaged Russian cruiser. O’Brien and Paul Jones joined in, their torpedoes also leaving a clear trail as they sped across the calm water.
“Signal a turnaway,” Davis called, “Let’s get back to our heavies.”
The destroyers wheeled back toward the American battle line, but Paul Jones was rocked by a pair of medium-caliber shells. She staggered before continuing on. Davis turned his binoculars aft and from a mile away had a spectacular view as a column of water spouted high in the air, two hundred pounds of nitrocellulose flashing into the side of the Varyag.
********
Lieutenant Commander Hardin finally took a moment to breathe. They’d turned away from the initial skirmish and fallen into line on the disengaged side of the battleships, as ordered, and he’d seen to damage control for the opening action. It was time to find out how his boss, friend, and mentor was doing.
“Lieutenant Williams, you have the con. Maintain course and attend to signals from the flag,” he ordered. “I’m going to sick bay, I’ll be back in ten.”
He descended the ladder from the bridge and walked aft and down to the medical space. He walked in to find the ship’s surgeon wiping down his tools and his captain lying on an operating table, covered by a sheet.
“I was just coming to see you,” said HM1 Forson. “It was an untreated peptic ulcer. He’d never said a word to me about it, and by the time he was brought down here there was nothing I could do. I’m sorry, I know you thought highly of him.” The medic paused. “We all did,” he added with a sigh.
“Thanks doc,” Hardin answered heavily. “I know you did what you could.”
The XO turned, a bit numb, to go back forward. He gathered himself and made his way back to the bridge.
“Signal from Indiana, sir,” said Lieutenant Williams as he entered. “Our division is to take make a pass at the damaged cruisers while the fleet chases down their battleships.”
“Very good,” he said, and he brought up his binoculars to look northwest. The two Russian cruisers lay close together about six miles north, a Varyag low in the water, the other smoking, and neither moving fast. “Signal Providence and Newark. We’ll come about to get in solid gun range, call it three thousand yards. Then turn to two seven zero to stay in touch with the fleet.”
“You got it, sir,” answered Williams. “How’s the skipper?”
All Hardin could say was “Not good,” and a silence fell over the bridge. He swallowed, saying “We have a job to do, let’s get to it.”
The Denver moved north seeking to close the distance on the wounded Russians. They Russians weren’t done yet though and Denver rocked with a nine-inch shell detonating close aboard. Hardin felt the ship lurch, and a few moments later the speaking tube scratched out “Bridge, Engineering, two of the starboard boilers are down.”
Hardin swore quietly and turned to the gunnery officer. “You may fire at will, Mister Williams.”
Denver’s forward twin mount and her three starboard guns trained outboard and fired, and Hardin watched the six-inch shells splash all around the nearer Russian cruiser, without the telltale flash of an impact. The secondary battery fared better though, several shots from the smaller guns striking home on a Russian destroyer.
Denver’s movement faltered again with an impact, then yawed wildly. “Sir, steering’s not responding!” called the helmsman as Denver swung thirty degrees to starboard. As Hardin watched the forward turret started to track the Russians through the turn then jammed to a halt.
“Damage control, I need a report,” he hollered, as the ship came back under control. The guns unstuck too as the cruiser came back on course, and they barked again. Denver rocked once more, this time hit below the waterline with a large shell. She began to listing to starboard and slowed further.
“Signal Providence to take the lead and send to the flag that we’re making repairs but unable to keep up.”
********
There was a resounding crack as Indiana shrugged off a heavy shell from the Petropavlovsk. Quimby could see the gaggle of Russian ships on the horizon, and his own armored cruisers nearly caught up to them, accompanied by a fresh destroyer division. In spite of the furious barrage from the Worcester and Toledo, the Russian battleship commander was apparently willing to spare a shell here and there for his American counterpart.
He could see dense smoke gathering above the Russian formation. For an hour his ships ran west trading fire with the Russians, his big cruisers drawing even then steadily ahead. At various points all three of the Russian battleships had appeared to be burning but so far their ships weren’t slowing appreciably
“Sir,” called the plotting officer, “They’re turning north.”
“Very good,” he answered. Things must have gotten hot enough that the Russians were shying away from the American cruisers. “Turn to three three zero and signal the others to join on us.” The American formation turned north-northwest and formed into four columns, armored cruisers to the west, then the battleships, then two columns of faster light cruisers, led by Olympia and Providence. Quimby signaled them to take the lead and called for Worcester’s division to move past his much slower battleships and join in the line.
During the fleet’s turn north McCall managed to lead the only intact destroyer division right under the guns of the Russian battleships, breaking up their formation somewhat but never quite getting into firing position for torpedoes. Quimby signaled, again, for them to fall back in on his battleships, then watched frustrated as first McCall and then Monaghan were battered by the Russians. Finally all three disentangled themselves and moved to a safer distance.
The slugging match continued, with Indiana and Michigan keeping a steady flow of twelve-inch rounds while the cruisers surged ahead pouring out smaller shells. The Russian formation was a mess at this point, with their cruisers out of position and the pace of all three battleships starting to slacken as their injuries mounted. Providence led the cruiser divisions across the front of the Russian formation, and the enemy couldn’t answer the maneuver. A hail of medium caliber gunfire met Russian steel, and then finally a torpedo found pay dirt.
Quimby listened to the calls and watched the plotting board as over the course of fifteen minutes three more torpedo hits were called, one on the Slava and one into each Petropavlovsk.
The Admiral smiled grimly and ordered a general attack.
********
Hardin climbed to the small platform on the roof of Denver’s bridge and raised his binoculars. Between the intrepid work of the ships damage control teams, and the hit that had flooded their port torpedo room a few minutes ago, the ship was back on a roughly even keel. The most they could make was eighteen knots but it didn’t appear they were in immediate danger of sinking.
The main battle was raging well to the west, nearly lost in the glare of the afternoon sun. A pall of smoke hung in that direction and the echo of heavy gunfire had been continuous for two hours. To the northeast of Denver loomed the same two Russian cruisers, who looked to be edging further east, closer to where Hardin knew the convoy should be located. Close aboard, the destroyers Whipple, Monaghan, and McCall were all struggling to come to grips with varying degrees of damage.
Hardin climbed back down to the bridge. “Signal the destroyers to form on us if possible. Steer a course toward McCall, she looked to be worst off. And keep up steady a fire as we can at the nearer Russian.”
Sure enough, within a few minutes McCall sent up a flare and started putting her boats into the water. The other two destroyers began pulling sailors out of the sea while Hardin guided Denver between them and the Russians.
Denver shook again and a cloud of brown smoke belched from her aft stack, as the engine spaces took another hit. Hardin grimaced and ordered yet one more course change, hoping to spoil the Russian gunners’ aim.
Suddenly the water around the enemy ships started erupting in huge geysers as the rest of the American fleet came up behind Denver. Within minutes the battleships found the range, and the two Russian ships were quickly reduced to smoking wrecks.
“Sir,” called a signalman, “the flag sends good job, and we’re to fall in with the battle line.”
Well that’s that, thought Hardin. “Very good. Pass the word to the crew, well done all hands. Stand down in watches for some chow, then let’s get this thing home.”
[/div]