Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey.
Summary: What if Doctor Clarkson had been forced to leave the garden party early, before Thomas had had a chance to speak to him? What if, following a suggestive comment by a colleague, the First Footman had decided against joining the British Army at all? What if, instead, he'd decided to join the Royal Navy? How different might things have been for him?
Warnings: Slash, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Violence, First World War.
A/N So the idea for this particular story has been rattling around in the back of my mind since I attended the 'Mountbatten Festival of Music' back in 2016 during which there was a memorial piece for the 100th commemoration of the 'Battle of Jutland.' I knew then that I wanted to do a story focusing on the naval aspects of the First World War which isn't as well known as the land based aspects, mostly due to the fact that the evidence of the battles are at the bottom of the ocean and can no longer be seen. Now, I don't claim to be a historian so please excuse me if I get anything wrong despite my research in this particular subject.
A/N 2 please be aware that whilst HMS Warrior was a real ship and I have managed to find a list of her crew I have opted to used entirely fictional characters for the use of this story so as not to dishonour any of their memories. In terms of the naval facts that I am including in this story I am from a naval family, my great-grandfather was killed during World War Two, my grandfather served during the final year of the war and my husband served back in the 1980's, and as such want to be as accurate as possible so have done as much research as possible (mostly using a fantastic book from the Jutland Museum at Portsmouth Historic Dockyards called '36 Hours. Jutland 1916. The Battle That Won The War.' Which I would highly recommend to anyone interested in the subject.) I am, however, not a historian and so there may be some factual errors so please forgive me and enjoy my work of fiction.
THE BOYS IN NAVY BLUE
CHAPTER FOUR
HMS Warrior
31st May 1916
It was a sight to behold, of that he was sure, Thomas thought to himself as he carefully made his way up to the bridge with a tray of steaming hot tea for the Officers on duty.
There were ships as far as the eye could see, the Grand Fleet displayed in all its glory, all of them steaming in perfect formation, their funnels belching columns of black smoke as they pushed their engines as hard as they dared in order to meet up with the Battlecruiser Fleet.
He, just like every inexperienced new seaman on board one of these impressive creations, had once envied the stokers who had seemed to be paid more than the rest for doing what appeared to be a simple job; delivering coal from the stokehold to the boilers. Now, two years later, he didn't envy them one bit, particularly not with such a difficult day ahead of them. They weren't unskilled labourers, quite the opposite in fact. Unlike their merchant counterparts who could bank their boilers just as one would a fire, building up the steam over time and keeping it going at a steady pace, the stokers of a ship such as Warrior had to be able to get up steam rapidly and then vary the amount of steam as they changed speed in order to allow the ship to manoeuvre. This meant that the coal had to spread carefully across the bed of the boiler and the steam pressure had to be continuously monitored.
Stokers, he now informed anyone who asked, were just as skilled as he, a steward was.
"Ah, good," Captain Elliott sighed with obvious relief, straightening up from where he had been bent over the chart table as he caught sight of Thomas. Around him his senior officers, who had also been studying the charts, copied his actions. "Gentlemen, Barrow brings tea."
"Indeed I do, sir," Thomas confirmed, stepping onto the bridge and moving across to the gaggle of officers. "Yours is the mug nearest my right hand, sir. Just a hint of milk and two sugars. Then, Commander Collins, that one is yours. No milk, not too strong, slice of lemon."
He proceeded to distribute the teas, each one made to the officers specific tastes, finishing with Lieutenants Greenaway and Crawley, the most junior officers currently on the bridge.
"Milk with one for Lieutenant Greenaway. Milk with none for Lieutenant Crawley."
"Are you sure you don't have our orders written down somewhere, Barrow?" Commander Collins chuckled as he blew lightly on his tea. "None of the others can remember all of that."
"Years of practice, sir," Thomas responded with a smile, tucking the tray into his chest as he made his way back towards the door, or rather the hatch. "This is nothing compared to–"
"Flags, sir!" the young voice of one of the men on watch cut him off. "On Defence, sir."
"Crawley?" Captain Elliot hummed, gesturing for the Lieutenant to investigate. "Well?"
"Message from Admiral Jellicoe," Matthew translated the flags which had been hoisted as was his job as a signals specialist. "Assume complete readiness for action in every aspect."
A hush fell upon the bridge following his announcement.
Thomas froze, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the tray much too tightly.
"The day has finally come, gentlemen," Captain Elliot finally broke the silence, turning to address the entire room, small as it was. "Finally we shall be given the chance to give the Hun a damned good thrashing as only the Royal Navy can. Gentlemen, drink up your tea and prepare the ship for battle readiness. Just as we've practiced, no need to panic the men."
"Aye, aye, sir."
As one the officer gulped down their tea, only a couple of them struggling with the heat of the liquid, and Thomas stumbled forwards, his movements uncharacteristically stilted, to collect the empty mugs on his tray. It was 1500, he noticed out of the corner of his eye as he waited for the last of the mugs; what would the next six, twelve, twenty-four hours hold?
"Thank you, Barrow," Matthew murmured, placing his mug on the tray. He was the last despite not having had any trouble gulping it down. No, he'd waited purposefully so that he would be the last. "Best get to your station now. And Barrow, look after yourself, alright?"
"Yes, sir," Thomas responded. "And, sir? You'd best look after yourself too."
Matthew offered him a tight smile and an equally tight nod in return before they went their separate ways, Thomas hurrying back through the ship to the galley where he dumped the entire tray in the sink, heedless of whether or not any of the mugs were damaged. What did a couple of mugs matter when there was a good chance they'd all end up on the bottom of the sea before the day ended? They didn't, that's what, and if by some minor miracle they managed to survive the battle unscathed he'd worry about what state they were in later.
Much later.
As a steward his battle station, or action station as it was sometimes called, was in the ships sick berth where he would work either as an attendant or as a stretcher bearer, whichever he was assigned to given the situation. It had made him smile back during basic training when they'd been informed of this particular fact; it seemed that even though he hadn't been able to join the Royal Army Medical Corps he would still be doing the job he'd wanted.
Admittedly he'd wanted to join the RAMC in order to stay away from the fighting but still…
"Ah, Barrow, good," Crabb, the senior of the three surgeons aboard Warrior rumbled when he stumbled into the room to join his fellow stewards. "That's everyone. Foster and Moore. Jenkins and Barrow. You'll be our stretcher bearers for today's action. Roper, you'll be my attendant. Whiting, you'll be Budge's attendant and Kettle, you'll be Wright's. Everyone else will operate as general attendants once the wounded start coming in. Right, get this place battle ready, gentlemen. I want everything cleared or secured, prepped and ready to use."
"Aye, aye, sir."
They worked together with practiced ease, completing the tasks which they had trained for, and in less than half-an-hour the sick berth was as ready as it could possibly be. There were four permanent beds, set up as two pairs of bunks, with an open metal frame for ease of access although Thomas didn't look forward to lifting someone into the top bunk given how high up it was. Added to this there were a dozen temporary beds which they had built all around the room and, should the need arise, hammocks. The stretchers were collapsible and were stood up just outside the door leading into the sick berth. Despite having three surgeons on boards there was only one operating table, if it could be called that, which could be hidden behind a curtain if the need arose. A tin bath, sink and toilet were all crammed into one corner of the room, again with a curtain for modesty, and the walls were lines with cupboards of equipment and supplies which were normally locked to prevent theft but had now been secured on the latch, keeping the items safe but readily available.
A mop of and bucket, along with a stack of empty bucket, sat in the corner of the room.
These, Thomas knew, would be used to clean up the blood, to collect the soiled bandages or, as they had been warned was an unfortunate likelihood, to hold the limbs which had to be removed. It would no doubt fall to young Keene, the so called 'boy servant' and youngest amongst the stewards at just sixteen-years-old, to man the mop and the buckets. Poor sod.
Warrior, as part of the 1st Cruiser Squadron, was under the command of Rear-Admiral Sir Robert K. Arbuthnot who had chosen HMS Defence as his Flagship many years ago. It was Defence, therefore, that headed their line of ships as the journeyed slightly ahead of the main bulk of the fleet, holding a screening position. Warrior was second in the line of ships and behind her was HMS Duke of Edinburgh. Bringing up the rear was HMS Black Prince.
"Thomas," Jenkins muttered, moving to join Thomas at the railing on the walkway outside of the external door to the sickbay where he and several of the others had been watching the fleet. This door was to be kept clear during the battle; the stretchers therefore were leant outside the internal door. Not that they'd be there during the battle. "Cigarette? Thomas?"
"Thanks," Thomas muttered, drawing his gaze away from the ship five miles or so behind them which he believed to be HMS Iron Duke, Admiral Jellicoe's Flagship. She was a beast of a ship, a dreadnought battleship only four years old and named for the Duke of Wellington, Arthur Wellesley, with an armament and armour to match. Unlike Warrior she had only one watch tower and two funnels, Warrior herself possessing four funnels and both a fore and aft watchtower, and her overall design was more sleek, less block like. And yet, if Thomas had to choose he'd probably still prefer to be aboard Warrior. The old girl had character, a charm that some of the newer ships were lacking. Of course, if they could take Iron Duke's engines and transplant them into Warrior that would be fantastic. "Might be our last ones."
"Bit negative," Jenkins muttered, using his lighter to get both his and Thomas' cigarettes going, rubbing his thumb over the engraving on the metal case before pocketing it again. A particularly deep swell cause them to plant their feet as the ship rocked. "We could be fine."
"Could be," Thomas agreed, mimicking a ships funnel as he calmly blew out a long plume of smoke, tilting his face up towards the sky. Beside him Jenkins, a bit of a show off, blew his out in rings. "Either way, I think these will have to tide us over for the immediate future. I don't know about you but they frowned upon taking a fag break when I went through my battle simulations during basic, said something about it being and inopportune moment."
Several of their group snorted loudly, most of them also smoking one last cigarette.
Even the surgeons, also getting a breath of fresh air before the chaos, chuckled softly.
"Can't think why…"
It was just then that they heard the unmistakable sounds of a gun being fired, somewhere not too far from them although because it was coming from somewhere on the starboard side of their ship they on the port side couldn't see the owner of the gun, and a moment later heard the corresponding awesome thunder of an explosion as the shell hit its target.
Or what they presumed had been its target.
"This is it, then," someone muttered seriously. "The battles begun."
Truthfully the battle had been going on for some time, the focus had simply been on the Battlecruiser Fleet which had only now reached the Grand Fleet, bringing with them the Germans. What they were witnessing, albeit by hearing alone, was a portion of the battle which would one day be referred to as the 'run to the North' and eventually when the ships finally came into sight of their small group they witnessed Rear-Admiral Hood, commanding the 3rd Battlecruiser Squadron from his flagship, HMS Invincible, doing considerable damage to the light cruisers of the German 2nd Scouting Group. It was a terrifying thing to witness.
It would be an even more terrifying thing to be a part of.
"We're turning," Thomas realised suddenly, and indeed the ship gave a corresponding lurch as its helm was swung hard to port, following an almost identical path to that of Defence. A cry escaped someone as their new direction of travel cut directly across the path of HMS Lion, Admiral Beatty's Flagship, at the head of the 1st Battlecruiser Squadron. The larger ship, who had obviously already been in action with her German counterparts, was forced to alter her course lest she ram into them, passing within 200 yards of Warriors stern in a move which saved the cruisers but sacrificed her own ability to fire with the rest of her squadron as her vision of the enemy fleet, her target, was suddenly blocked by the smoke from the cruisers smoke. "Bloody Hell! What was that? Where's that blasted fool taking us?"
"Careful," Crabb muttered. "That's no way to speak of your commanding officer."
"I didn't mean Captain Elliot," Thomas responded. "I mean Arbuthnot."
"Still…"
"We've lost Duke of Edinburgh and Black Prince!" Keene cried out in his as-yet-unbroken voice, sounding almost like a screech as he pointed back at where the other two ships of their squadron should be. "They can't mean for the two of us to take them on alone?!"
Shells were flying overhead in both directions, the battle cruisers of each fleet attempting to inflict serious damage upon the other. And now, thanks to what felt like pure recklessness on behalf of the man running their squadron, they were stuck in the middle of it all with no where to go but towards their enemy. If Thomas had doubted their chances of surviving the battle before those doubts tripled, no, increased tenfold now that they were sitting ducks.
"This is insane…"
"Pipe down, now," Crabb ordered, silencing the group of stewards with the command. "I'm sure Admiral Arbuthnot knows precisely what he's doing. I'm sure he has a plan laid out."
Thomas snorted, shaking his head as he muttered under his breath,
"Sure, like a puppy has a plan when it chases a squirrel up a tree…"
Shells were falling all around them, each one having fallen short of their intended target and splashing into the sea, some missing them only by the narrowest of margins. One landed so close that they had to move back to avoid the spray of icy water caused by the explosion.
Thomas wasn't the only one to let out a few choice swear words.
Every other ship they could see was doing everything they could to stay out of the area they were steaming into, seemingly at full speed, and Thomas couldn't blame them; he imagined this was what the poor goldfish at a county fair felt like when people threw rings at them.
They were by far the easiest target for any of the Germans to aim for and they were only getting closer, putting them all the more in range of even the smaller enemy vessels guns.
"We're slowing," someone announced, stating the obvious before leaning as far as he could over the railing to peer around the Defence ahead of them. "I think there's another ship..."
It was a little after 1800 when time seemed to stop if only for a moment.
There had indeed been a ship ahead, Thomas would later learn that it was the crippled SMS Wiesbaden, and Defence engaged with the hopes of sending her and her crew to the depths.
Instead they watched, slack-jawed and utterly helpless, as three shells struck the water on either side of the Defence before inevitably two found their mark, striking her amidships.
And then she was gone, her magazines going up with a massive explosion.
Water and debris rained down on the wreckage of the ship, bits of men and ship alike, and then between one stunned breath and the next the wreckage had slipped below the waves.
HMS Defence was no more.
She had gone down with all hands, 903 men and officers gone in the blink of an eye.
Keene whimpered loudly,
"That's…that's not possible…"
It was.
It was entirely too possible.
They'd just watched it happened.
And, Thomas realised with growing dread as he watched the small pieces of wreckage floating in the water, there was only one possible outcome for their immediate future.
Warrior, now a lone ship trapped between the two fleets, was next.
"Bloody hell…"
The tell-tale sound of a shell being fired filled the air and, without even being able to see which ship it had come from though the thickening smoke, he knew where it was headed.
Everyone around him froze, waiting, and then…
A/N Sorry. I'm sorry for the nasty ending and the slightly shorter chapter but it just played out that way. And for the delay getting this chapter out. Been doing so research into Jutland and the Navy in World War One as a whole. It's a fascinating and highly underrated piece of history. Hopefully the next chapter shouldn't take quite so long to get out. Marblez x