Aug 5, 0700, Black Rock Coastal Defence Battery, Esquimalt Naval Dockyard
Lieutenant Maxwell Kirkpatrick-Crocket was strolling back from Duntze Head Battery towards his post at Black Rock, the examination battery for Fortress Esquimalt, when he heard the siren. He broke into a run. He had thought these few minutes of the morning would be a good quiet time to borrow a cup of coffee from the thermos of the Duntze Head Battery Commander. The first few sips were just what he needed, considering they had not been fed since mobilizing yesterday afternoon. Now he was losing the rest from his cup onto the path as he ran.
He did not recognize the alarm from any of their drills, but whatever it meant, he figured, it could not be good. Kirkpatrick-Crocket was the Battery Commander for Black Rock. As examination battery they were tasked with firing warning shots across the bow of any ship attempting to enter the harbor without stopping for the examination vessel. And if hostile ships tried to force the harbor entrance, they would fire the first shots that would signal a general barrage.
“Hurry up sir!” called his sergeant. “Two German torpedo boats are coming into the harbor!” Kirkpatrick-Crocket jogged into the battery command post, and set down his coffee cup. A gaggle of men had gathered around the vantage point of the guns to see what was going on.
“Off Duty, clear the terreplain!” he ordered.
Half the men wandered back down the concrete stairs toward the casemate shelter.
“Private, get me the fortress command post.” The private worked the telephone exchange. Kirkpatrick-Crocket put his eye to the tripod-mounted telescope. Indeed there were two boats out there headed for the harbor. And they definitely had the silhouettes of submarines. The heat haze coming off the water blurred their details.
“Load Guns! High Explosive!” called Kirkpatrick-Crocket.
The gun captains shouted out the commands of the loading sequence, shells were produced from the ready ammunition lockers and rammed home in the guns.
“Range 5500 yards!” announced the corporal at the rangefinder.
“Naval Yard says to make sure of the identity of the craft and communicate with the yard commander as soon as identity is established, Sir!” called out the private at the telephone.
Across the harbor at Fort Rodd Hill, the barrels of the 6 inch disappearing guns rose one after the other over their parapets like dipping birds.
An artillery major came to stand beside Kirkpatrick-Crocket.
“What do you make of them?”
“Unclear, sir. Something does not add up to the German Navy though, unless I am much mistaken. The Germans don’t even have submarines in China. And nothing with a range to get here without a tender.”
“Yeesss…” said the Major, drawing out the word as he pondered. “Somehow, they are not acting like this is an attack.”
The submarines adjusted their headings by several points, presenting more of a profile.
Kirkpatrick-Crocket studied these silhouettes in profile. He was, as it turned out, uniquely suited to this moment. In his younger days in England, he had looked at quite a few submarines, while assisting his father, who was an Admiralty photographer. He in fact had as much warship recognition trivia in his memory as the latest edition of Jane’s Fighting Ships.
“Range 5000 yards!” The 12 pounder guns were well in range, the barrels traversed slowly, covering the approaching boats.
“Looks to me like C-Class submarines. Royal Navy.” He said to the major. “Hold Fire!”
“Where have they come from?” asked the major.
“Perhaps from Hong Kong,” replied Kirkpatrick-Crocket keeping his eye to the telescope. Hong Kong reinforcements was one of the stream of rumours that had been bouncing through Victoria society. “Most certainly they are not German.”
“Naval Yard says they’re British subs! Sir!” called the private at the telephone. “They’re flying the White Ensign.”
“So they are,” said Kirkpatrick-Crocket, squinting to make things out in the haze. He kicked himself for not spotting the flags earlier. The higher vantage point of the dockyard signal station must give their lookout a better angle.
“Friendly submarines! Stand Down! Private, relay message to other batteries.”
Kirkpatrick-Crocket looked up and surveyed the situation. A rating on the platform of the signal station was challenging the submarines in semaphore. He put his eye back to the telescope. Men on the two conning towers waved back with their arms. The visibility had cleared slightly, and he recognized one of the faces as Lieutenant Wood, Chief Artificer from the naval yard.
“Well I’ll be…”
“Good call there Lieutenant,” said the Major.
“Yes, well, other than myself, I don’t think there is another individual in the regiment who has even seen a submarine before.”
An odd pair of men burst up onto the firing platform of Black Rock Battery, wild eyed and out of breath. One wore the ceremonial coat of a provincial premier. The other was that excitable young Senior Naval Offier, in dress uniform.
“Don’t worry,” the major consoled them. “They are British submarines.”
“Actually” Lieutenant Pilcher panted, doubled over, “They are… British Columbian submarines.”
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