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the comment he wanted to make. Milne was only just around the northwest corner of Sicily, and proceeding with measured pace back toward the Strait of Messina.

    "Where's Indomitable ?" one of the others asked.

    "Back in Bizerte, coaling," Fawcett Wray, his flag captain said. "There was some problem with requisitions . . ."

    Cradock said nothing. He had done his small best to improve the coaling efficiency of his squadron, but Milne's insistence on personally approving every detail made it almost impossible. He seemed to think initiative more dangerous than any enemy.

    "Requisitions!" That was Coode, captain of destroyers. Cradock had heard him on other occasions; now he cocked an eyebrow at the young man, who subsided like a kettle moved off the fire, steam almost visibly puffing from his ears.

    "Gentlemen, the German ships will have to emerge today, or face internship." That got their attention. "Let me explain what I expect them to do." Quickly he retraced his reasoning on the possible courses of action open to the Germans.

    "The Turks would not dare harbor them," Wray said. "They must know it would turn us against them. We are their naval advisors; they asked for an alliance with us only last year—"

    "Which was refused," Cradock pointed out. "The government did not want to inflame the Russians or the Germans with a formal alliance there . . . but I daresay the Turks took it differently. In addition, on our most recent visit to Turkey, I heard from the locals that Admiral Souchon was a great man. When I asked why, they told me about his having sent the crew of the Goeben to help fight a fire in a Turkish barracks in Constantinople, back in May. Several of the Germans died; the Turks—you know how emotional they are—got up a celebration of some kind."

    "But . . . the Turks are neutrals. Even if they admire Souchon—"

    "They're Turks. Intrigue is their nature, along with theft and pillage. They have as well that touchy Oriental vanity, which a trifling matter like assistance in a barracks fire would flatter. For Orientals, this is enough. It does not occur to them that any British captain would have done the same."

    "But you don't seriously believe they would come into the war as German allies? Not after all we've done for them—"

    "I doubt very much they would ally with Germany . . . but I can imagine them giving sanctuary to the Goeben and then finding Souchon more than a match for them. With those guns leveled at the city, can you imagine the pashas refusing his demands?"

    "Well, sir," Coode said, "if this is what you think the Germans are going to do, then why aren't we blockading the southern end of the Strait of Messina, instead of sitting over here watching for Austrians?"

    "Admiral Milne's orders," Cradock said. "I intend to ask Admiral Milne for permission to position the squadron where we can engage the Goeben under more favorable terms. We will need to move south to do so. Therefore, we must attend to coaling the destroyers at once."

     

    Cradock took a turn on the deck, observing every detail of his squadron, the sea, the signs of weather in the sky, trying to avert his mind from the signs of weather—heavy weather—ahead in his relationship with his commander. Across the blue water, Corfu rose in terraces of gold and green; the mingled scents of lemon groves, thyme, and roses on the breeze competed with the nearer whiff of coal, oil, metal polish, and the freshly holystoned deck. Westward, beyond the blue morning shadows, sunlight burned on the lapis sea, and in the distant haze Italy's heel formed a vague smudge on the horizon. In this second day of war, peace lingered here, where nothing but his own ships seemed warlike.

    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