“They couldn’t do it!”
And the awful, fatal word, which I had not even dared to think, rang in my brain, and seemed to be written in letters of fire on the smoke, on the battered sides, and even on the pale, confused faces of the crew.
Bogdanoff was standing beside me. I caught his eye, and we understood one another. He commenced to talk of it, but suddenly stopping, looked round, and said in an unnaturally calm voice: “We seem to be heeling over to port.”
“Yes—some 8 degrees,” I answered, and, pulling out my watch and note-book, jotted down: “3.25 p.m.—a heavy list to port, and a bad fire in the upper battery.”
I often afterwards thought: why is it that we hide things from one another and from ourselves? Why did not Bogdanoff express his thoughts aloud? and why was it that I did not dare to write even in my own note-book the cheerless word “Defeat”? Perhaps within us there still existed some dim hope of a miracle, of some kind of surprise which would change everything? I do not know.
After the Alexander had turned, the enemy’s ships also turned 16 points “together,” and this time the manœuvre was successfully performed—so successfully, in fact, that it seemed as if they were merely at drill and not in action.
Steering on an opposite course, they passed under our bows, and from the Suvoroff it seemed as if we could almost cut into their column. We inclined to starboard after our fleet. (This was, of course, only imagination, for, not being able to steer by surrounding objects but only by compass in the lower fighting position, we were in reality not moving ahead, but were only turning to starboard and to port; remaining almost in the same place.) In passing close to us, the enemy did not miss his opportunity of concentrating his fire on the obstinate ship which refused to sink, and it was, apparently, now that our last turret, the forward 12-inch, was destroyed. According to Japanese reports their torpedo-boats came up at the same time as their fleet and attacked us unsuccessfully, but I did not see them.
A shell entered the gun port of the fourth (from the bows) 12-pounder gun of the lower battery on the port side, and it was a lucky shot, for in addition to carrying away the gun it penetrated the armoured deck. The water poured into the damaged port, and being unable to run back on account of the list to port, fell through this hole into the mess deck, which was most dangerous.
Bogdanoff was the first to call attention to it, and we at once started to make some kind of an obstacle out of coal sacks, and anything else that was handy, so as to cover the hole and stop the water getting in. I say “we,” because the few hands left in the battery could not be brought to obey orders. They huddled in corners in a sort of stupor, and we had almost to drag them out by force, and were obliged to work ourselves to set them an example. We were joined by Flag Torpedo Officer Lieutenant Leontieff and Demchinsky, but the latter could only encourage us with words, as both his wrists were bandaged.
At 3.40 p.m. a cheer broke out in the battery, which was taken up all over the vessel, but we were unable to ascertain what had caused it or whence it had originated. Rumour had it that one of the enemy’s ships had been seen to sink; some even said two—not one. Whatever may have been the truth, this cheering had the effect of quickly changing the feeling on board, and the depression from which we had been suffering, both on account of the fire which we had seen poured into the Alexander, and because of the departure of the fleet, vanished. Men who had been skulking in corners, deaf to the commands and even requests of their officers, now came running to us asking: “Where could they be of use, and what at?” They even joked and laughed: “Hullo! that’s only a 6-inch! No more ‘portmanteaus’ now!”