When Milne finally answered his signal, it was to refuse permission to reinforce Gloucester at the western exit of the Strait of Messina.
Cradock did not tell Milne he had sent the destroyers to coal at Ithaca. Half-formed in his mind, a plan grew, like a stormcloud on a summer’s day, hidden in wreaths of haze. If the Goeben broke free and ran east, as he expected, where and how could he catch her, given that his ships were slower? Not by a stern chase—she had outpaced even the big battle cruisers. Not by an interception—she could spot his smoke as far away as he could spot hers, and with her speed easily avoid him. No—he had to decide where she was going to be, and surprise her.
Which he could not do if he waited to ask Milne’s permission. Like a thundercloud suddenly revealed, his dilemma stood clear. Was he seriously considering ignoring his orders to guard the Adriatic, making an independent decision to anticipate Souchon’s movements and engage the enemy ships? Without informing Milne, in direct contravention of custom and naval law?
The very thought made him wince. He had had it drummed into him, and he had drummed it into others: commanders command, and juniors obey. To act on his thoughts risked not only his ships and his men, but the very foundations of naval discipline. Even if he was right, even if he caught and sank the Goeben, he might well be court-martialed; he would certainly not be given another command. Milne would never forgive the insult; Beattie, Jellicoe… he winced again, imagining the astonishment and anger of men he respected, whose respect he desired. He was appalled himself. It was like a member of the field intervening in place of the M.F.H. and giving orders to the huntsmen.
Yet—he remembered the cold day when he’d first seen the bumptious red-headed young officer of hussars who was now First Lord of the Admiralty. For a moment he warmed himself in the glow of that infectious grin, that intensity so akin to his own. Stirrup to stirrup they had faced stone walls, sunken lanes, hedges that in memory seemed as much larger as last year’s salmon. Bold, free-going, young Churchill’s mistakes would be those of confidence and high courage; he might fall, but he would never shirk a fence. He would approve.
Yet again—Churchill was a civilian now, and had never been in the Navy. He had never been the model of an obedient young officer, even in a service as lenient as the cavalry. Moreover, he had a reputation as a weathercock, changing parties for profit. Cradock dared not trust that memory.
His mind strayed to the First Sea Lord, Prince Louis Battenberg. An able man, who had earned his rank and position, but—would he understand the dilemma in which Cradock found himself? If only Jacky Fisher were still First Sea Lord! There was a fire eater who would approve anything, were the Goeben destroyed.
He took a long breath of Corfu’s aromatic air, and reminded himself that, after all, he might be wrong. Souchon might run for the Adriatic. Or even Gibraltar. He might not have to make that choice.
Cradock ate a lunch that had no more flavor, in his distraction, than his breakfast. His destroyers had had to search all the way into the Gulf of Corinth for their collier, whose foreign captain had somehow gone to the wrong Port Vathi. Now they were coaling. Milne had finally reached the western exit of the Strait of Messina, with battle cruisers who could surely defeat Goeben if Souchon were stupid enough to go that way. His own rebellious thoughts spurred him toward bigger obstacles.
He could not wait until a crisis to decide what his priorities were, just as a foxhunter could not wait until the last few strides before a fence to decide whether to jump. That way lay shies and refusals. No, the bold rider sent his horse at every fence resolved to clear it. His officers and men needed his direction, his resolution.
Nelson had been blind to a stupid order at Copenhagen—could he not be deaf to a stupid order in Greece?
Who was he, to compare himself to Nelson?
Should not every English admiral compare himself to Nelson, and strive to match his stature? Would Nelson be more afraid of displeasing a senior, or letting an enemy escape?
But Nelson had not had a wireless to pass on every whim of commanders far away. How would a Nelson have dealt with that distraction? Again he thought of Copenhagen, of Nelson putting the telescope to his blind eye.
He had one advantage surely more valuable than speed or guns: a depth of knowledge of the Mediterranean which neither Milne nor Souchon could match. He knew it in all seasons, all weathers, in more detail than Souchon could possibly have acquired in only ten months. His mind held not only chart data, but mental images of bays and inlets and passages apt for coaling, for unseen passage from one island to another. Shingle beaches, sand beaches, steep cliffs dropping straight into deep water, sea caves… like familiar fields long hunted over, whose every hedge and fence and gate is known to members of the hunt, he could bring it all to mind.
August 6, 2030 hours.
On the broad breast of the sea, the moonlight shone, as it had for thousands of years, lighting sailors home. Now it lit dark billows of coal smoke against a sea like hammered pewter. Two long, lean shapes slid through the quiet sea, menacing even as they fled. Behind them, a third, much smaller: H.M.S. Gloucester trailing the German ships Goeben and Breslau, and by her own smoke they knew she was shadowing them. To port, the coast of Italy, opening northward into the Gulf of Otranto; far ahead, on this course, the boot heel of Taranto, aimed in a backward kick at the narrow strait that led into the Adriatic.
On Defence, south of Corfu, Cradock stared at the charts and finally shook his head. Gloucester had reported the German ships leaving the Strait of Messina just after 1700 GMT, 1800 local time. Now, over two hours later, the German ships were still steaming ENE, as if aiming for the Adriatic. If that was where they were going, it was time to move the squadron north to intercept them. Cradock did not believe it.
“He must turn, and turn soon,” he said.
“If they go north…” Captain Wray glanced at him. The other cruiser captains said nothing; they would let the flag captain do the talking, for now. “Our orders said keep them out of the Adriatic.”
“He is a fox; he will not run into that trap.” He felt a prickle of annoyance; he had explained this before. He sensed in Wray less enthusiasm for the chase than he would have wished in his flag captain. Weeks before, during a discussion of the German ship, Wray had kept harping on the German battle cruiser’s strength, the range of its guns. Now he repeated himself.
“But… even if you’re right, sir… the Goeben is far too powerful for us to engage without at least one of the battle cruisers to assist.”
Cradock smiled at Wray, trying to hearten him. “She has bigger guns, certainly. And more armor. And more speed. But she is only one—no—” He put up his hand to forestall the younger man’s correction. “I know, she has Breslau. But we easily overmatch Breslau. At night, along the coast of Greece… the Goeben’s advantages lessen markedly.”
“Ah.” Wray’s face lightened. “You intend a night engagement in navigation waters? With the destroyers…”
“Yes. Pity it’s so clear. But if we position ourselves where I am convinced she is likely to go, we can pick our best location, where the Goeben’s speed and range cannot help her. Then our numbers must count. I expect she will pick up her pace after her turn—she is only luring Gloucester on, loafing along at eighteen knots or so, hoping her lookouts will slack off.”