Chapter Two

11 November 1916

Southampton, England

HMHS Britannic

Charlie Epping is a man who respects a finely waged war, the way that others respect a well-made watch.

People so often misunderstand what war is—they think it’s scattered, chaotic. But it is an incredibly sophisticated, constantly moving set of coded messages and information, quantities, commands, bodies, supplies, numbers, logistics. Those who can master the patterns can save countless lives. And what better business in the world is there than that?

He takes a long drag on his cigarette. The sky is wonderfully blue over Southampton, the kind of crisp autumn day that makes a man happy to be alive, though come night out on the open water it’ll be brittle cold—brutal, even.

He leans forward, one foot on the railing, to watch the activity below. He’s on the boat deck not far from his station in the radio room. From his perch a hundred feet above the froth of churning waves breaking against the piles, he has a clear view of all the activity, men on the other decks and the pier below. It’s like a colony of ants, the men reduced to black dots, scrabbling to and fro to get the giant ship ready to leave tomorrow.

He has a million things to do, too, him and Toby Sullivan, the second radio operator: There are tests to run to make sure the fancy Marconi wireless telegraphy system works properly. Wireless is new. Like most Marconi operators, Epping volunteered for the training as soon as he joined the military. He likes the idea of learning a trade and sees a future in wireless.

Some days are busy for the radio operators, others less so. At sea, they can pick up transmissions only when they are in line of sight with another ship, or close to one of the wireless stations. The technology is cranky and mercurial. Weather affects transmission, as does the time of day. There are codes to memorize, numbers that represent standard commands. And then there is Morse code itself. Epping knows it so well that he finds his mind translating words into dots and dashes even in conversation, swears he hears the tap of the stylus in his sleep.

He throws the nub of his cigarette over the railing, his eye following its motion, like a flying dash against the repeating whitecaps. Then he checks his pocket watch: the morning pouch should’ve been delivered by now. Orders and intelligence reports come up twice a day from Southern Command at Tidworth Camp, and it’s the radio operators’ job to sort through them. Things will slow down once they are at sea, but for now he and Sullivan are hard-pressed to keep up.

The Britannic was converted from a grand ocean liner—the most luxurious ever built, or so at least they tell him. Unlike purpose-made military vessels, the ship has proper stairs instead of ladders. The alleyways are wide. There are plenty of portholes. You don’t feel boxed in on this ship, the way you do on a cruiser or battleship. Epping’s gotten so used to close quarters over the last few years that the sheer amount of open space on board the Britannic sometimes makes him feel as though he doesn’t know what to do with his own arms.

Of course, the ship has a rather notorious sister. Command was upfront about the Titanic disaster from the beginning, assembled the entire crew to explain all the improvements that had been made to the Britannic in response to the tragedy. Doubled the hull and sealed all the bulkheads, all the way to the top. This ship is much safer than the other one, they were assured. No need to be nervous.

And Epping’s not the nervous type. Can’t be when you’ve got a floating ballroom that’s been converted to a sleeping ward for the sick and dying: men torn to pieces like rag dolls, missing arms and legs, faces ripped apart by shrapnel, lungs destroyed by phosgene gas. The doctors say the carnage is greater for this war because modern weaponry is so much deadlier.

Having retrieved the mail pouch from its hook on the pier, Epping returns to the radio room, where Toby Sullivan points to a stack of papers at the telegraph station. “We forgot to send the updated crew list to Tidworth. Can you take care of it?”

Charlie doesn’t mind; he’s three times as fast on the stylus as Toby, who hasn’t completely memorized Morse just yet and still gets hung up on letters—and not just the ones that are rarely used, like the Q’s and X’s and Z’s, but also the ones that are only slightly uncommon, like J’s and V’s. Charlie sits down in front of the crew ledger, picking out the names of those who came on board since the last report, and makes a check mark in pencil beside each. There is a list of information they need to send on each crewman: name, last held position, age, residence, next of kin.

Then he taps in the preamble: From HMHS Britannic to Southern Command, Tidworth Camp . . . dot dot dot dot, dash dash . . .

He moves his finger to the ledger and finds the first entry. Edgar Donnington, Uxbridge Shoring, age 34, Ickenham, Mrs. Agnes Donnington (wife).

Then to the next.

Anne Hebbley. Titanic . . .

He pauses. A survivor. Makes a mental note to find out more. The girl must either be a hardy one or extraordinarily lucky to have lived—or both. He can only imagine the stories she must have.

He goes on, tapping in her data: age 22, Liverpool. For next of kin, he quickly punches dash dot pause dash dash dash . . .

None.