Royal Naval Dockyard
Portsmouth, England
September 1905
Shortly after the Oceanic docked, Stephen Morrison disembarked the ship. Waiting for him at the pier stood an earnest-appearing ensign who worked directly for Captain Reginald Bacon, naval assistant to the First Sea Lord. “Welcome to England, Mr. Morrison!” beamed the youthful ensign as he saluted. “I’m here to take you to Captain Bacon’s office. He’s expecting you for lunch, sir.”
Morrison returned the salute and offered, “That’s very kind of him.”
Both men got into the car and sped away to the Royal Naval Dockyard. As they drove, the young ensign proved to be a chatty host. “Will you be working with us on the Dreadnought, sir?”
“I’ll be with you for a week. I’m scheduled to shove off after the keel-laying ceremony.”
“That will be quite the celebration. You know, that’s the official start of the Battle of Trafalgar celebrations. The month of October is the one-hundredth anniversary of Lord Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar. His Majesty King Edward will be here for that celebration. You know, he and Admiral Fisher are good friends.”
“So I’ve heard,” replied Morrison as the car pulled up to a two-story, red brick building at the head of a drydock. As he got out of the car, the ensign pointed to the large piles of metal plates and other materials stacked on either side of the drydock. Hundreds of shipyard workers scurried busily all over the drydock area. The whole area seemed to be alive with energy and purpose. “As you can see, sir, we’re ready to go.” He led Morrison through the front door where a young yeoman issued him a special identification badge and stamped his orders. He followed the energetic ensign up a flight of stairs to a door that had “Captain Bacon” neatly painted on the frosted glass pane. “I’ll leave you here, sir,” the ensign said as he opened the door for Morrison. To the young lady at the desk, he barked, “Let Captain Bacon know that Lieutenant Morrison of the United States Navy is here.” The young lady jumped to her feet and disappeared behind a door in the rear of the small office.
Several minutes later, a tall, distinguished-looking officer emerged from the back room. “You must be Lieutenant Morrison,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Captain Bacon. Welcome to Portsmouth.”
As they firmly shook hands, Morrison replied, “I’m delighted and honored to be here, sir.”
“Excellent! I hope you’re hungry. We’re headed for the officers’ club for lunch. Captain Scott will be joining us. He knows you by reputation and is looking forward to meeting you.”
The lunch at the officers’ club evolved into an excellent social engagement for Morrison. He found Captain Percy Scott to be a very interesting individual. Acknowledged as the Royal Navy’s foremost expert on gunnery, Scott had revolutionized naval gunnery into a true science. These techniques had been brought to the American navy by one of Scott’s protégés, then-Lieutenant William Sims, who had become one of Stephen Morrison’s most influential mentors. Scott was a short, hyperactive individual, the type of man who dominated every conversation. Most people found it hard to get a word in when conversing with him. Scott seemed excited to meet Morrison, considering him another one of his gunnery disciples. “I’ve heard about the exploits of you and Commander Sims aboard the Indiana. Well done indeed! I also read the after-action report once it was forwarded to the Royal Navy. You two have changed gunnery techniques forever back in the states. God, it wasn’t very long ago in the British navy that if a projectile fired by a naval vessel actually hit a target, it was a cause for celebration. Now, you Americans have learned the art and the science. Again, well done, Mr. Morrison!”
“Well, sir, we had a pretty good teacher, if I must say so.”
“Oh, you must!” blurted out Scott. “You certainly must!” Both Bacon and Morrison erupted into laughter. Morrison could sense he would enjoy his week with the British.
After lunch, they returned to Bacon’s office for a briefing. Bacon had prepared a briefing folder for him, and they sat down in the conference room next to his office. “Lieutenant, I’m going to give you an overview now on Dreadnought; how it was conceived, what exactly is going into the design, and what the timeline is for the project. Are you familiar at all with Dreadnought?”
“I know that it’s going to be an all-big-gun ship, only twelve-inchers. In addition, I know it will be fast. It appears to be based on that concept presented by the Italian naval architect, Cuniberti, a couple of years ago in an issue of Jane’s Fighting Ships, correct?”
“No doubt that concept helped influence Lord Fisher’s thinking, but the ideas are all from his brain. He has been envisioning this type of ship for years. Now that he has attained the position of First Sea Lord, his intention is to make his vision a reality. We’re totally committed to it. We’ll begin with a little background. Admiral Fisher assumed office in October of last year. One of the five main reforms he proposed for the naval service was to design and build a new class of battleship equipped only with twelve-inch guns and capable of twenty-one-knot speeds, two unheard of concepts up to this time.
“Beginning the end of last December, Admiral Fisher formed the Committee on Design to conceptualize the project. I was a member of the committee, along with six other naval officers and nine civilians. Admiral Fisher was not actually a member of the group, although his heart and soul were present in the room at all times. In fact, he oversaw the entire process. The committee met for seven weeks and based our work around the two governing principles as elucidated by Admiral Fisher, guns and speed. We decided on ten twelve-inch guns mounted in five turrets: one turret forward, one wing turret on either side of the superstructure, and two aft turrets.”
“I don’t mean to interrupt, sir, but why didn’t you superimpose two turrets forward, with the upper one higher and slightly behind the lower turret? We’re putting that type of arrangement in the new battleships we’re designing, and we feel it will be more effective.”
“We actually considered that arrangement, but the committee was split on this issue. Some felt strongly that in this arrangement, the firing of the upper turret would cause too much of a blast effect and render the lower turret unusable. I have mixed feelings myself. In the end, Admiral Fisher decided on the chosen arrangement of the turrets.”
“What about the propulsion plant? I read that you are going to change from reciprocating piston steam engines to turbine engines. I’m not familiar with this concept. Can it work on a battleship?”
Bacon smiled before continuing. “It can, and it will! You’ve been in the engine rooms on modern ships, Lieutenant. Can you carry on a conversation or use the phone? In fact, can you even hear yourself think?” Seeing the smile develop on Morrison’s face, Bacon continued. “I thought not. Our engineers have devised a steam turbine technology they guarantee us will be much quieter and much more durable than piston engines. Instead of pistons slamming up and down in cylinders, causing metal fatigue and ultimately cracked metal, we’ll have rotating metal discs mounted on the shaft that will spin continuously. We’ll reduce metal fatigue and run a hell of a lot cleaner, too. Can you ever remember going down into the engine room and not sliding all over the place because of all the fuel oil over the deck? This new technology will be much cleaner, and engine room duty will be much more palatable. Our engineers have a design that will generate twenty-three thousand horsepower from this turbine engine.”
“What is the anticipated weight of Dreadnought? That’s a lot of horsepower,” Morrison commented.
“The weight will be seventeen thousand tons.” When Bacon finished the sentence, Morrison whistled when he heard the number. “Those are quite impressive numbers! Almost a little mind-boggling, if you don’t mind my saying so, Captain.” He ran some figures in his head for a few seconds. While deep in thought, Morrison said, almost as if talking to himself, “You know, given the horsepower generated, twenty-one knots would be feasible for a seventeen -thousand ton ship. Yes, yes it would!” exclaimed Morrison, feeling intellectually stimulated by the thought of this new ship design.
Bacon smiled at the young American. “I see the lights going on in your head, Lieutenant. It is intriguing, isn’t it? I can see your enthusiasm growing as we talk. Actually, one has only to spend ten minutes hearing Admiral Fisher wax eloquently about Dreadnought to become a true, devoted believer.” Pouring a glass of water for himself and Morrison, Bacon instructed, “Turn to page ten of the briefing book. You’re in for a surprise.”
Morrison did as instructed and gasped. After reading the proposed timeline for the ship’s construction, he blurted out “Sir, you can’t be serious. From keel laying to completion in twelve months? That’s impossible!”
“It would seem that way, if one were wed to tradition. You know, the keel laying is next week. Did you see what was going on in this yard when you approached the drydock? All of the materials are stacked and ready. All of the metal plates for the hull and armor belt are pre-cut and positioned for installation. The work force is motivated and committed to the project. They have been literally counting the days until the work begins. Lastly, don’t forget the driving influence of the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir John Fisher himself. Never underestimate that last factor, ever.”
“May I ask a question, sir, and I mean no disrespect?”
“Fire away.”
“What is the quickest time that a battleship has ever been constructed in your drydock?”
Bacon paused and reflected. Finally, he replied, “About two-and-a-half years. Yes, that’s about right.”
Morrison just sat there with a skeptical look on his face. Bacon smiled at him and said, “Just remember all of the facts that I have just outlined for you concerning the construction of Dreadnought. All of them will guarantee the success of the venture. Most of all, Lieutenant — and this is important — never, I repeat never, underestimate the power of the last factor I described to you. The influence of Admiral Fisher is what will ensure that we complete the construction exactly on time.”
* * *
Over the next several days, Stephen Morrison met with many of the individual project managers who would be overseeing the various aspects of Dreadnought’s construction. He had been allowed to sit in on all aspects of the pre-construction phase that had been concluded by the week’s end. Back in his room at the bachelor officers’ quarters each night, he transcribed copious notes into a log that he would use to assemble his final report to Secretary Bonaparte. He planned to have at least a rough draft ready to submit before he left for Russia.
The thought of Russia continually weighed on his nerves. He had no idea how he would be contacted by the British agent with whom he would be working. He had been told by the president that the agent would contact him upon arrival in London, but other than that, he had nothing. No name, no address, nothing. He had been informed that the project was to be run by the head of British Intelligence, but nothing else had been revealed. Roosevelt had told him that in England, only the king, the prime minister, and this intelligence director knew of the mission. They would be given the name of an American, Lieutenant Stephen Morrison. With so many unknowns, Morrison even began to wonder if the mission had been aborted.
That morning, he had been awakened by a nightmare. It was an odd premonition. He had had varying versions of the same nightmare since he was a teenager, but he hadn’t had any episodes in over a year. As he lay in his bed, drenched in sweat, he realized that the uncertainty was starting to get to him. Why else would the nightmare have returned at this particular time? The keel laying would be in two days and still no contact or instructions from the British. He got out of his bed and walked over to the mirror hanging over his chest of drawers. Staring deeply into the face looking back at him, he began thinking. What was he trying to prove to himself by volunteering for this mission, returning to Russia after all these years? How long had it been, he wondered? Sixteen years? How many different lives had he led that brought him to this point? He was an American in England, awaiting orders to go into Russia and take part in a kidnapping and possible assassination of a foreign monarch. He smiled and thought, No wonder the damn nightmare returned! Splashing water on his face, he forced his thoughts back to his work and his wife. He would get through this challenge. Once the mission began, he would be all right. Focus on the mission, he thought. That's the key.
Later that day, Captain Bacon’s secretary stopped Morrison as he entered the main office and said, “Oh, Lieutenant, these are for you.” She handed him two envelopes. He thanked her as he tore open the first envelope. Continuing down the corridor, he began to read its contents. The memo from Captain Bacon contained a general reminder to all hands that everyone must be seated by 0945 on Monday, October 2, for the arrival of the official party, which would include Admiral Fisher and King Edward. On the bottom of the note, Bacon had scrawled, “Good news, Lieutenant. You’ll be riding back to London on the afternoon train with Admiral Fisher. The First Sea Lord wants to meet you.” The prospect of meeting this naval legend both surprised and delighted Morrison. He knew that an official function, a ball to commemorate the Battle of Trafalgar, had been scheduled for that night at Buckingham Palace and that Fisher would be returning to London to attend it. The train ride back to London would take about an hour-and-a-half. He would have plenty of time to have a great conversation with the head of the Royal Navy.
As he started to toss the message into a wastebasket, he remembered that he had a second larger envelope. Opening it, he pulled out an official invitation that featured the crest of His Highness King Edward VII. It was an invitation to the reception at Buckingham Palace the night of the keel laying. This unexpected honor brought a big grin to his face. Meeting “Jacky” Fisher and going to a reception at Buckingham Palace, all in the same day! His day had certainly improved since he had awakened drenched in sweat from his haunting nightmare. It was turning into a fine day, in fact. As he started to put the invitation back in the envelope, he saw that the word “over” was handwritten in blue ink in the bottom corner.
He turned the invitation over and saw, written on the back: “The Music Room 9:30 P.M.”
It was signed with the initials HRH.
* * *
Monday, October 2, turned out to be a clear, cold day. Amidst strict security, the entire dockyard workforce had assembled in place by 9:30 that morning. Like clockwork, the king’s train arrived at Portsmouth exactly on time. As the crowd watched, the official party led by His Majesty King Edward VII took its place on the podium. The First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir John Fisher, sat next to the king.
The entire ceremony lasted less than half an hour. When the master of ceremonies introduced Admiral Fisher, the crowd erupted into wild applause. Waving like a celebrity, Fisher then began his speech, which lasted about fifteen minutes. He is quite an energizing and charismatic speaker, thought Morrison. Extremely buoyant and frequently gesturing with his arms, he seemed almost like an actor on a stage.
When Fisher finished, he introduced King Edward. Immediately, the crowd was on its feet, applauding wildly, and then it burst into a chorus of “God Save the King.” When the tumult finally died down, the king spoke to the crowd. He delivered a short, inspiring pep talk stressing the importance of the work about to commence. The motivated work force loved it, and when the king had finished, they broke into another standing ovation.
After the king returned to his seat, the workman brought out the precut metal plates of the keel of the battleship and positioned them while other workers stood by, ready to begin welding. They had rehearsed this moment for over a week, and with the teamwork of a choreographed ballet, the job was completed in minutes. Fisher returned to the lectern and announced, “Gentlemen, you may commence construction of the HMS Dreadnought upon the departure of the official party!” The crowd stood at attention as the official party departed. The king would be leaving for London immediately. Fisher would be staying until mid-afternoon, when he would be departing on the king’s train, which was being sent back to Portsmouth to transport him and his staff to London.
As soon as the official party departed the dockyard perimeter, a shrill whistle blasted from the top of the nearby water tower, a signal to commence the construction of the new battleship. Morrison watched with amazement and admiration as the hundreds of workers actually began running to their workstations. Cranes started to move, welding torches were lit, trucks hauling parts began moving and the dockyard came alive in a continuous buzz of perpetual activity. Admiral Fisher had decreed that Dreadnought would be constructed in one year. They had their marching orders. “Watch us now, Lieutenant!” shouted one of the young British officers with whom he had been working that week. “Tell Mr. Roosevelt that you saw history being made this month!”
“I certainly intend to,” shot back Morrison to the young ensign. With a smile, he waved and headed back to his quarters to pack his bags. He had just enough time to finish the first draft of his report and then make the train headed for London.
* * *
As Morrison read the draft of his report, the rhythmic slight swaying of the train’s motion nearly rocked him to sleep. A hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him, suddenly startled him. “Excuse me. You’re Lieutenant Morrison, correct?” asked a young British yeoman.
Sitting upright, he replied, “Yes, that’s me.”
“Sir, Admiral Fisher will see you now. Please follow me.” Morrison stood and followed the young man as they headed for the rear of the train. Fisher was in the last car. As Morrison approached, he stood and extended his hand, bellowing out, “Hello, Lieutenant! I’m sorry we haven’t been able to meet before now.” Fisher was a stocky man with short gray hair and a twinkle in his distinctive green, almost oriental eyes. He had a crushingly strong handshake, which Morrison reciprocated, saying, “Admiral, I can’t tell you what an honor it is for me to meet you.”
“Please, Lieutenant, sit down, and we’ll talk. Would you like a drink?”
“Water would be fine, sir.” Fisher nodded at the enlisted man who stood nearby. “Please make that two waters, young man.” Morrison noted that the admiral had a sallow, almost yellow, complexion. He had heard the rumors that his coloring was the result of several previous bouts of malaria. It became apparent immediately that Fisher loved to talk, and he seemed especially pleased that the United States has sent a representative to study the Dreadnought. “Tell me,” he began, “what do you think of our project?”
“Very impressive, sir. It is a fantastic concept. You have quite a team putting it all into place. Captain Bacon is a most capable man. He and his staff have been quite kind to me this week, and I truly appreciate their efforts.”
“Captain Bacon is impressive, isn’t he? To be candid, no one could work as my naval aide and not be impressive, not the way I drive them! I’ll let you in on a little secret, one that is probably the worst-kept secret in the Royal Navy,” he said as he winked at Morrison. “Captain Reginald Bacon will be the first commanding officer of HMS Dreadnought when she is commissioned next year.”
“I can’t say that I’m surprised, sir. I’d love to serve under such a capable CO as him.”
“Well said, Mr. Morrison! Reviewing your record, it looks as if you’ve had a few impressive commanding officers in your career thus far. Tell me, what do you think of the timeline that we’ve laid out for the ship’s construction? Do you believe we can do it?”
“Well, sir, if you say it can be done, I wouldn’t doubt you.”
“I can tell you’re stationed in Washington and have been around diplomats with that answer. Obviously, you really don’t think it can be done. But make no mistake, the Dreadnought will be commissioned and ready for sea trials in one year. To show you how confident I am of this goal, I’m extending you an invitation to return next year for the commissioning. If you like, we’ll arrange for Captain Bacon to take you out to sea!”
Morrison tried his best not to appear startled and thanked the admiral profusely. “I can think of nothing I’d like better. Thank you so much, Admiral.”
“Tell me, Mr. Morrison, I hear you disagree with the placement of our forward turret and instead would have recommended two forward turrets, one on top of the other. Do you realize that I personally overruled that idea? Why would you have recommended otherwise? You must realize that careers are ruined by such disagreements with superior officers.”
Morrison suddenly felt as if he was being set up for a fall. Why else would Fisher have brought up the whole matter? He decided to answer candidly. “With no disrespect meant, sir, our engineering studies show that the superimposed turrets, when placed correctly, pose no difficulty either with the firepower of the lower turret when the upper one fires, or with the habitability of the lower turret under those circumstances. With correct venting of the spaces, as well as required hearing protection, this is a better arrangement. It also puts more of our firepower directly forward as we pursue and attack the enemy.
“Pursuit and attack. This is where the placement of the forward turrets really comes into play in our overall strategy and battle doctrine. You see, Admiral, we have been heavily influenced by a brilliant naval strategist who once said something to the effect that, ‘I am an apostle of End-on Fire, for to my mind, broadside fire is peculiarly stupid.’ I believe I’m capturing the essence of his words correctly.”
Fisher stared directly into Morrison’s eyes upon hearing his own words being recited back to him. Morrison feared he had crossed the line; Fisher appeared about to explode with anger. For about fifteen seconds, that impassive look of welling anger continued to be written all over the admiral’s face. Then, suddenly, he threw his head back and began roaring with laughter. “Oh, my God, Mr. Morrison! Well done! Well done!” He continued to shake with laughter, finding it hard to speak at first. “You have knowledge and audacity — a very valuable combination in this day and age. A combination that, unfortunately, I see very rarely in the Royal Navy.” He continued laughing and finally settled down to say, “The look on your face was priceless! You looked like a sailor from the age of sail who was about to be keel-hauled.”
“To be perfectly honest, sir, you looked like a captain from the age of sail who was about to order me to be keel-hauled!” Smiling as he spoke, Morrison was glad to see the admiral again burst into laughter with his response. Their meeting seemed to be going well.
The admiral meandered on about his youth and how he had entered the Royal Navy as a penniless thirteen-year-old. He seemed especially proud as he recalled his accomplishments as he struggled to claw his way to the top of the British Navy. “You see, Mr. Morrison, I’m not sure you can relate to these types of struggles. You are a graduate of the United States Naval Academy and the son of a United States congressman. Don’t look surprised. I had my staff do some homework on your background.”
Morrison cleared his throat and replied, “Actually, Admiral, I can relate to these types of struggles. Congressman Morrison was my stepfather. I was born in Russia, the son of a rabbi who immigrated to the United States when I was eleven years old. I know exactly what you mean about starting out in life with absolutely nothing.”
Fisher’s jaw dropped as he said, “What? You mean you’re a Jew? But you don’t look … I mean how …?” He seemed unable to express the questions that shot through his mind.
“I know. I don’t look like a Jew, whatever exactly that means. I’ve heard that all my life. It’s a long story how I ended up as a naval officer and currently aide to the secretary of the navy, and it's probably a story for another time, sir.”
“Hmmm,” mused Fisher, as he looked at the young American and smiled. “Another Disraeli!” he said, referring to England’s Jewish prime minister of the late nineteenth-century. He stood up, and Morrison immediately followed suit. Fisher extended his hand and said, “Shake hands, Lieutenant Stephen Morrison.” As they pumped each other’s hands with firm, powerful grips, Fisher smiled and continued, “From one penniless wretch who made it into the service of his country’s navy to another.”
Morrison smiled broadly and replied, “Amen to that, Admiral.”