"Fifteenmetres fine grey sand, Herr Kapitan."
Ober-leutnant Hans von Preugfeld, commanding officer of U 247, was typically Prussian in his thoroughness. Carefully he examined the sand adhering to the "arming" of the lead line that the leadsman held up for his inspection.
He grunted a sort of congratulatory reply and, turning his back upon the black oilskinned seaman, addressed himself to the second-in-command.
"Good, Eitel!" he exclaimed. "We are not far from the spot. But caution the men to keep their ears open and to stop running at intervals. I am in no mood to fall in with any of those hornets, nor do I want an English destroyer cutting us in twain."
Eitel von Loringhoven, unter-leutnant of the Imperial German Submarine Service, nodded his head comprehendingly. He, too, fully realised the perils that beset pirateunterseebooten, for, despite all possible precautions, Germany's under-water fleet was in a bad way. It came home to him in a very personal manner, too, for he was the last survivor of five brothers who had gone out into the North Sea mists at the behest of Admiral von Tirpitz. Four had never returned. Of the manner of their demise he was in total ignorance. Perhaps some day, if he survived the period of hostilities, the British Admiralty might enlighten him, but until then his knowledge of how four von Loringhovens simply vanished was merely a matter for conjecture. And the very mystery of it all was both nerve-racking and terrifying not only to Eitel von Loringhoven but to every officer and man serving in theunterseebootenflying the dishonoured Black Cross Ensign.
Throughout the day U 247 had been feeling her way through fog of varying intensity by aid of compass, lead line, and patent log. Whenever the thud of the engines of an approaching vessel was heard the U-boat submerged promptly and without ceremony. Although five out of every six vessels that passed within audible distance were of the British Mercantile Marine, U 247 made no effort to ascertain that they were not warships. The risk of closing with any craft in the fog was too great, for, although the U-boat could shell an unarmed merchantman with impunity, she had long learnt to respect both men-of-war and armed merchant ships.
Von Preugfeld had vivid recollections of the s.s.Contraption, a six-knot tramp two hours out of Grimsby. He had had information from an unimpeachable source that theContraptionwas unarmed, that she carried munitions for Archangel, and that she expected to join a convoy off Flamborough Head.
With these facts in his possession, the ober-leutnant showed far less discretion than he usually exercised. Unable to resist a chance of playing upon the nerves of the crew of the English ship, he brought U 247 to the surface, and at reduced speed maintained a position a bare cable's length from the tramp's starboard bow.
Therein he made a great mistake. He had completely underrated the stubborn courage of the British Mercantile Marine.
Hard-a-port went theContraption'shelm. Barely had the crew of the U-boat time to scurry below and submerge at record speed when the tramp's forefoot rasped athwart the U-boat's deck. It was a near thing, as the moisture on von Preugfeld's ashen-grey features testified.
Twenty minutes later U 247 rose to the surface, and at a safe distance shelled her antagonist and sent her to the bottom; but the U-boat had to "leg it" back to Wilhelmshaven with her pumps going continuously to keep down the water that oozed through ominous dents in her hull.
"Ten metres, Herr Kapitan."
"Any signs of the lighthouse?" he demanded.
"None, Herr Kapitan."
"Keep her at that," continued the ober-leutnant. "Inform me when you strike eight metres, unless you sight the headland before that."
Running just awash, and with her surface motors well throttled down, U 247 held on until the look-out man gave the much desired information:
"Land right ahead, Herr Kapitan. A white lighthouse two points on our starboard bow."
It was now close on sunset. A partial lifting of the fog revealed at a distance of about a mile a serrated ridge of dark cliffs culminating in a bold promontory crowned by the massive squat tower of a lighthouse. There was no need for von Preugfeld to verify the statement by means of his reflex glasses. He rapped out a curt order, and the U-boat swung round through eight points of the compass and settled down to a course south-south-west, or parallel with the forbidding shore.
"Tell von Preussen to hold himself in readiness," said von Preugfeld, addressing the unter-leutnant. "If he is not set ashore within forty-five minutes, I will accept no further responsibility in the matter."
Von Loringhoven clicked his heels and saluted.
"Very good, Herr Kapitan," he replied. "Von Preussen is even now changing into the accursed English uniform. Ach, here he is."
The ober-leutnant wheeled abruptly to see standing within three paces of him a tall, thickly built man wearing a khaki uniform.
"So you are ready?" remarked von Preugfeld, not with any degree of cordiality. Truth to tell, he was not at all keen about this particular undertaking, namely, to set ashore a German spy disguised as a British officer. "Well, I suppose your get-up will pass muster, von Preussen? If it does not, I fancy you'll be in a tighter hole than ever you've been before."
"I can look after myself, I think, Herr Kapitan," replied the spy. "I can assure you that from my point of view my work ashore will be child's play to the time I spent on board your vessel. Ach! I do not hesitate to confess that I am not of a disposition suitable forunterseebootenwork. It appals me."
The ober-leutnant shrugged his shoulders.
"It will help you to appreciate the perils that we undergo for the honour of the Fatherland," he observed. "Perhaps, on your return, you might communicate your views on the subject to the Chief of Staff. Our task grows more difficult every day. The men, even, are showing signs of discontent, thereby magnifying our dangers. But, there—better come below and let von Loringhoven and me have a final kit inspection; and at the same time we may join in a bottle of Rhenish wine and drink to the success of our joint enterprise."
The kapitan having enjoined a petty Officer to maintain a vigilant watch, led the way, followed by von Preussen, the unter-leutnant bringing up the rear, and the three adjourned to a narrow, complicated compartment that served as a ward-room. In spite of scientific apparatus for purifying the air, that confined space reeked abominably. Everything of a textile nature was saturated with moisture, while the metal beams, although coated with cork composition, exuded drops of rust-tinged water.
In the glare of the electric lamps Karl von Preussen stood stiffly erect, clad in the uniform of a captain of the British Royal Air Force. In height he was about five feet eight, broad of build, and with decidedly Anglo-Saxon features. He could speak English fluently and colloquially, and thanks to a British Public School education, followed by a three years' appointment in a London shipping office, he was well acquainted with the peculiarities and customs of a country that was Germany's chief enemy.
Long before August 1914 von Preussen had been a spy. One might say that the seeds of the dishonourable profession were germinating during his school-days: they were certainly decidedly active when he was occupying an ill-paid post in Threadneedle Street, where his modest pound a week was augmented by sundry substantial sums paid in British gold but emanating from Berlin.
The outbreak of hostilities found von Preussen fully prepared. Posing as one of the principals of a steel factory, he practically had an entry to every British Government establishment. Armed with forged documents, he was not for one moment suspected. From Scapa Flow to the Scillies, and from Loch Swilly to Dover, his activities brought valuable information to the Imperial Government. Within a week of the mining of a British Dreadnought—a calamity that the Admiralty vainly attempted to conceal—von Preussen had conveyed details and photographs of the lost vessel to Berlin, and on the following morning the German Press published illustrated reports of a "secret" known throughout the world.
When occasion offered, von Preussen did not hesitate to commit acts of sabotage. More than once, disguised as a munition worker, he was instrumental in the destruction of a shell factory, while it was he who gave instructions and furnished material to the noted spy Otto Oberfurst in order that the latter could and did destroy the cruiserPompeyin Auldhaig Harbour.
The stringent passport restrictions placed upon all travellers to and from Great Britain considerably curtailed von Preussen's activities. The difficulty of making a sea passage to the Continent was almost insurmountable. Once, indeed, the spy essayed to fly, and was within an ace of success, when the stolen machine crashed. Fortunately for the spy, the accident happened in an unfrequented spot, and being but slightly injured he contrived to get away; but the mystery of the abandoned machine puzzled the brains of the Air Ministry for months. Von Preussen returned to the Fatherland via Bergen, disguised as a fireman on board a Norwegian tramp.
The spy had not long been in Berlin before he was peremptorily ordered off on another "tour." The Hun High Command knew how to get the best out of their secret service agents, and since Karl von Preussen had been a success his employers kept him running at high pressure. Accordingly, armed with instructions to report upon various British air stations, and to obtain accurate information respecting the bombing 'planes known to be building for the express purpose of blowing Berlin to bits, the spy was sent on board U 247, the commander of which was furnished with orders to land his passenger on the east coast of Scotland.
"Here's to your venture, von Preussen!" exclaimed Ober-leutnant von Preugfeld, as he raised his glass. "Your health."
With a profusion of "Hoch, hoch, hoch!" their glasses clicked and the toast was drunk. Then, tightening the belt of his trench-coat, the spy ascended the ladder and gained the deck.
"Thefog is thicker than ever," grumbled the ober-leutnant as he emerged from below. "It is so far fortunate for your landing, von Preussen, but give me a clear night. Then there is far less risk of being run down by those accursed P-boats."
"You need to be doubly careful on a night like this," rejoined the spy.
"And one way is to lose no time in getting into the dinghy," added von Preugfeld pointedly.
Rubbing alongside the bulging hull of the U-boat was a small collapsible dinghy manned by a couple of hands clad in oilskins. In the stern-sheets, muffled by a piece of tarpaulin, was a lighted compass.
"I am sending my unter-leutnant in charge of the boat," observed von Preugfeld.
"Then I hope Herr von Loringhoven realises the sense of his responsibility," laughed the spy, as he stepped into the boat."Auf Wiedersehen!"
The dinghy pushed off under muffled oars and well-greased rowlocks. In less than half a minute it was inaudible and invisible, swallowed up in the fog.
The kapitan of U 247 remained on deck, half-buried in his greatcoat. He was both irritable and impatient—impatient for the return of the boat, irritable since he wanted to smoke and durst not. Another U-boat commander had smoked on deck while his boat was recharging batteries at night. The fumes of the cigar, drifting far and wide, assailed the keen nostrils of a submarine hunter. As it was, the U-boat got away, but her kapitan learnt a lesson and did not hesitate to inform his fellow-pirates of his very narrow escape.
Always within easy distance of the open conning-tower hatchway and ready to submerge at an instant's notice, Ober-leutnant von Preugfeld maintained his solitary vigil, for the rest of the crew had been ordered to their diving stations. It was the life of a hunted animal, haunted by an ever-present fear. Von Preugfeld, prematurely aged and careworn, had suffered the torments of the damned since the order had been issued for unrestricted submarine warfare, At first he had entered into the business with grim zest. A firm believer in the policy of ruthlessness as applied to war, the ober-leutnant had no compunction in sinking unarmed merchantmen and hospital ships, but when the British Mercantile Marine took unto itself guns and gun-layers who could shoot uncommonly straight, and when the Royal Navy adopted certain sinister devices to cope with the pirate Hun, von Preugfeld did not feel at all happy.
By this time he was convinced that he was on the losing side. Almost every officer in the German Submarine Service had the same opinion, although individually they were loth to admit it. The men, too, knew that the U-boat campaign was a failure, but, unlike their officers, they discussed the matter amongst themselves and thought that it was quite about time they had a say in the business.
For a full forty minutes von Preugfeld paced the limited expanse of steel platform that comprised the U-boat's deck, until a faint whistle like the call of a curlew was borne to his ears.
Ordering a couple of hands on deck, the ober-leutnant gave the pre-arranged reply. For another five minutes the interchange of signals continued as the dinghy, baffled by the fog, endeavoured to find her way back to her parent ship.
Presently the black outlines of the little boat loomed through the moonlit mist. The bowman threw the painter, and von Loringhoven clambered on board.
"This confounded fog!" he exclaimed. "I have not seen a worse one even off the Friesland shore."
"And von Preussen?" asked the kapitan laconically.
"We landed him safely, Herr Kapitan," replied the unter-leutnant. "There was no one about. The actual business of setting him ashore was simple. We are to look out for him at the same place at midnight on the first of next month, I believe?"
"That is so," assented von Preugfeld. "That is, if we are still alive," he added, speaking to himself.
"If what, Kerr Kapitan?" asked his subordinate anxiously.
"Nothing," rejoined the other gruffly. "Now, to your post, von Loringhoven. We have a tricky piece of navigation in front of us if we are to arrive off Aberspey by midnight."
Thanks to his intimate knowledge of the coasts of Great Britain, von Preugfeld was able to take the intricate inner passage round St. Rollox Head. He did not expect to find any patrols in that waterway on a foggy night, and his anticipations were well founded. Running awash and at full speed, U 247 literally scraped past the outlying rocks, the thresh of her propellers being deadened by the constant roar of the surf upon the far-flung ledges that thrust themselves seaward from the bold headland. Through a winding channel barely a hundred yards in width, beset with dangers on either hand and swept by furious currents and counter-eddies, the U-boat held steadily onwards, until with a grunt of relief von Preugfeld "handed over" to his subordinate.
"We're through," he observed. "Now keep her south by west at nine knots. Call me in twenty minutes."
At the expiration of the given time the kapitan went on deck and ordered the leadsman to sound. Very slowly the U-boat held on, until through a rift in the fog the look-out sighted a green buoy on the starboard hand.
"That is what I was looking for," remarked von Preugfeld to the unter-leutnant. "It's a wreck-buoy placed there as a monument to our achievement last March. You remember?"
"TheCamperdown Castle, Herr Kapitan?"
"No, you fool," snapped the kapitan. "We sank theCamperdown Castleeighty kilometres away to the south-eastward."
"TheColumbine, then?"
"That's better," exclaimed von Preugfeld. "That red cross on her port bow made an excellent mark, illuminated by electric light as it was for our convenience. Now, shut off the motors. Call away the guns' crews. Elevate to eight thousand metres, and fire anywhere between west by north and west by south, and I'll warrant we'll make a mess of things ashore in Aberspey."
The two six-inch guns mounted on U 247 were quickly manned. The glistening, well-oiled breech-blocks were flung open, and the metal cylinders with their deadly steel shells were thrust home. For a brief instant the gun-layers lingered over their sights, training the weapons upon an invisible target roughly five miles off.
"Open fire!" ordered von Preugfeld in a strained, harsh voice.
Both guns barked almost simultaneously, stabbing the foggy night with long tongues of dark red flame. Even as the U-boat heeled under the recoil the shrill whine of the projectile could be distinctly heard, followed by the distant crashes of the exploding shells.
"Hit something," observed von Loringhoven. "Let us hope that the objective was worth hitting."
"Carry on!" shouted the kapitan. "Twelve rounds each gun, and be sharp about it."
The required number of rounds did not take long. The German gunners were working in feverish haste, fearful lest the tip-and-run bombardment would bring swift retribution in its wake in the shape of a flotilla of destroyers.
Directly the last shell case had been ejected and passed below—for brass was worth almost its weight in silver to the German military and naval authorities—the guns were secured and the crews returned to diving stations.
Pausing only to listen intently for sounds of approaching vessels, von Preugfeld disappeared through the conning-tower hatchway. The metal fastening clanged into its appointed place, the ballast tanks were flooded and U 247 submerged to thirty metres.
For the next hour she proceeded warily, until her kapitan deemed it safe to rise to the surface. The engines were stopped, and as soon as the U-boat floated just awash the officers went on deck to listen.
"Petrol engine!" exclaimed von Loringhoven, as the noisy exhaust beats of an internal combustion engine were plainly audible although at a considerable distance.
"Down with her then!" ordered von Preugfeld.
As he moved towards the hatchway, the chief motor engineer approached.
"We have a bad case of short circuiting, Herr Kapitan," he began. "Both on magneto and accumulator the motors refuse to fire. I have——"
"Donnerwetter!" exclaimed von Preugfeld angrily. "What monkey tricks have you been playing? And there are hostile motor craft around. Von Loringhoven, what depth have we?"
"Too great to rest on the bed of the sea, Herr Kapitan," replied the unter-leutnant.
Without motive power the submarine was helpless for under-water work. She could fill her ballast tanks, but it would be impossible to sink only to a required depth. She would sink rapidly until the tremendous external pressure of water would crush her thick steel hull like an egg-shell.
"How long will it take you to make good defects?" demanded von Preugfeld of the thoroughly scared mechanic. "Half an hour—twenty minutes?"
"I will try, Herr Kapitan. Perhaps in half an hour——"
"Then get on with the task," almost shouted the excitable ober-leutnant. "First couple up the surface-cruising engines. Von Loringhoven, turn out the guns' crews. If that motor vessel comes in sight we must try and settle her before she uses her depth-charges, or it will be all up with us. Ten thousand curses on von Preussen for having got us into this mess!"
Although scared himself, von Loringhoven could not help smiling at his superior's words. He realised that the spy had little or nothing to do with U 247's present predicament. It was just possible that the concussion caused by the bombardment of Aberspey might have set up a short circuit, but von Preugfeld would never admit that.
At frequent intervals the U-boat's engines were stopped. The noise of the unseen motor vessel's exhaust alternately grew louder and fainter. Somewhere in that baffling mist was the danger. Engaged in a mutual game of maritime blind man's bluff the submarine and the submarine-hunter were groping for each other. At any moment a rift in the veil of fog might bring the adversaries almost broadside to broadside.
Von Preugfeld glanced at the luminous dial of his watch.
"Fifteen minutes more," he muttered. "Will it be in time?"
"Pullstarboard; back port!... Give way together!" ordered Lieutenant-Commander Wakefield, as the blunt bows of the U-boat appeared through the dispersing fog-bank.
The men obeyed with a will. Almost in its own length the "tin" dinghy spun round and darted towards the pall of misty vapour. It was a dog's chance, and the men realised it, but they were not going to throw up the sponge without a determined effort to escape.
Alas for the bold resolve! With a rapidity that was little short of miraculous for a vessel of her type, the U-boat turned to starboard. Then, with her engines reversed, she brought up dead with her bows within an oar's length of the M.L.'s dinghy.
Right for'ard were half a dozen men clad in oilskins. One of them brandished a long boat-hook.
"Game's up, Fritz," shouted an unmistakable Devonshire voice. "Be yu comin' quiet-like?"
For a moment the men sat dumfounded. Then Wakefield laughed mirthlessly.
"She's one of our new submarines!" he exclaimed. "And we've been engaging her by mistake. Good heavens, what a proper lash up! Make fast there!"
The bowman threw a coil of rope, and as the boat swung alongside the giant submarine Wakefield leapt on board, followed by Meredith.
The surprise of M.L. 1071's officers was more than equalled by the consternation of the skipper of the submarine, who burst out into a torrent of eager questions.
"Then I've sunk you, by Jove!" exclaimed the latter. "How was I to know? Why the deuce didn't you make your private signal? You fired first, you know."
"Admitted," replied Wakefield. "We spotted what we took to be a U-boat and, having had official information that none of our submarines was within eighty miles of us, we naturally let rip the moment we sighted you."
He gave a quick glance at the deck and superstructure.
"Any damage?" he asked.
The other smiled grimly.
"Not to us... 'Fraid I cannot congratulate you on the excellence of your gunnery. Every shell went overhead handsomely."
The gun-layer of M.L. 1071's six-pounder, overhearing the remark, groaned at the slight upon his marksmanship.
"Sorry I can't return the compliment," observed Wakefield. "You caught us a beauty—only it failed to explode or we wouldn't be here. As it is, I've lost my command and sustained a couple of casualties. Rough luck!"
"Rough luck indeed!" rejoined the other sympathetically. "Come below and have a glass of grog. I'll have your men attended to. We must cut your boat adrift, I'm afraid."
Meredith followed the two lieutenant-commanders to the little ward-room, which, though small, was not chock-a-block with the usual appendages to a submarine's officers' quarters.
The skipper of the boat threw off his oilskin, revealing a burly figure rigged out in the uniform of a lieutenant-commander R.N.R. In height he was over six feet, with massive neck and bull-dog features. His face was tanned a deep red that contrasted vividly with his light-blue eyes and white, even teeth. From the outer corner of his left eye to within an inch of the extremity of his jaw-bone ran a greyish scar that tended to accentuate the grim tenacity of expression.
"Sit you down," he said, in unmistakably Northumbrian accents. "A stiff peg will pull you fellows together, although the sun's not over the fore-yard. But let that slide. What's your name?"
Wakefield gave the required information and introduced Meredith to the burly R.N.R. skipper.
"Morpeth's my tally," announced the latter, in answer to Wakefield's inquiry: "Geordie Morpeth, or 'Tough Geordie,' as they used to call me when I was first mate in the Foul Anchor Line—them that runs cattle boats to Monte Video, you might remember."
"Tough work, eh?" inquired Wakefield.
"You're about right," agreed Morpeth. "Handling a crew of Dagoes and such-like takes a bit of doing. My present job is an easy one in comparison."
"What made you go in for the Submarine Service?" asked Meredith.
The bull-necked R.N.R. officer leant back in his chair and laughed uproariously.
"Got you cold, by Jove!" he ejaculated. "Submarine Service—a precious lot I know about it, 'cept that I know a U-boat when I spot her. Leastways, I thought I did until I mistook your hooker for Fritz: but you fired on me first, my man. Ha! ha! ha! Submarine indeed!"
"Well, isn't this one?" inquired Wakefield.
"She won't submerge unless a Hun tinfish gets her," replied Morpeth oracularly. "And that ain't likely, since Fritz can't distinguish between a real U-boat and this old hooker. We're just a decoy."
"Sort of Q-boat?" asked Meredith.
"You've about hit it, old thing," replied the R.N.R. man. "We're just off to the Heligoland Bight to see if that fish will bite. Excuse my joke. Hope you're not in a hurry, 'cause you'll have to be shipmates along with us for the next fortnight."
"Any old job'll suit me," said Wakefield. "The only thing that troubles me is how we are to get in touch with the S.N.O., Auldhaig. We'll be posted as missing and all that sort of thing."
"Can't help you there," declared Morpeth. "We don't get in touch with patrolling craft during this stunt for a very good reason. They'd fire on us at sight long before we could establish our identity."
"Why not wireless?" suggested Meredith.
"We've got a wireless rigged up, but we don't use it except in cases of actual danger," explained Morpeth. "Once we start sending out messages all our chances go by the board. Fritz might intercept them, and there you are. We'll receive as many as they care to send, and a fine old collection we've got. You should see our wireless decoder with his German signal code-book. That's the way to get a true insight into the U-boat campaign. No, gentlemen, it can't be did; but I'll do my level best to make you comfortable. There's a spare bunk in my cabin, Mr. Wakefield, and Mr. Meredith can have a hammock slung in the ward-room. As for grub, there's enough and to spare for all hands."
"Good enough!" exclaimed Wakefield heartily. "Only I hope you've got a job for us?"
"You trust me for that," rejoined the R.N.R. officer grimly.
He glanced at the clock on the after-bulkhead.
"Seven bells," he remarked. "We've spent a solid hour kagging away when we ought to be turned in. It'll be daybreak in another hour. Tired?"
Wakefield and Meredith replied in the negative. The excitement of the unfortunate engagement was still making itself felt, rendering the desire for sleep impossible.
"Take my tip and turn in," suggested Morpeth. "I'll get the steward to bring some grub first, and then you'll be all right for the next few hours. You'll excuse me, but I must see how things are going on deck. I've got a ripping officer of the watch, but at the same time the responsibility is mine."
Picking up his cap, the gold lace and badge of which was green with exposure to the salt spray, Lieutenant-Commander Morpeth left his involuntary guests and went on deck.
"Tough customer," remarked Wakefield. "His nickname is well bestowed. I shouldn't care to fall foul of him."
"A good man for the job, I should imagine," said Meredith, as he proffered his cigarette-case to his superior officer. "Where the Navy would be without the R.N.R. goodness only knows. Those fellows could carry on straight away, but we had to be trained—after a fashion. I remember the first time I tried to bring an M.L. alongside a jetty. There wasn't much tide and hardly any wind, but it took five attempts before I did the trick."
"You were not the only one," said Wakefield reminiscently. "First time I was running at fifteen knots I had the wind up properly. Knew every article on the Rule of Road and all that sort of thing by heart, but the first lumbering old tramp I met drove the whole blessed lot out of my head. Scraped her quarter by less'n a yard, an' it might have been worse."
Kenneth puffed thoughtfully at his pipe.
"Rummy war this," he observed. "When you take things into consideration——"
"Fog's cleared away, and it's a bright moonlight night," announced Morpeth, thrusting his head, surmounted by the salt-stained cap and tarnished badge, through the doorway. "Care to come up and have a look round?"
"Right-o, old thing," replied Wakefield.
Preceded by their host, the M.L. officers ascended the almost vertical steel ladder and gained the deck.
"Mind our tram-lines," cautioned Morpeth, "That's right. Now, what do you think of the old hooker?"
The"old hooker" was plugging along at a steady twelve knots. At frequent intervals copious quantities of spray would be flung inboard as her bows plunged into the long swell. Running dead into the eye of the wind, she gave one an exaggerated idea of speed, for even in a light breeze the wire rigging supporting the two short masts verberated tunefully in the night air.
From the partly closed fo'c'sle hatchway came sounds of mild revelry. Meredith smiled at the noise, for he recognised amongst others the voices of some of his own men. Evidently the ex-crew of M.L. 1071 were taking kindly to their new surroundings, and were not in the least perturbed by their change of fortune.
"Hefty sort of hooker after an M.L." remarked Wakefield. "And what did you tell me was her name?"
"I didn't tell you any name, for the simple reason that she hasn't one. She's simply Q 171, while to Fritz she appears as U 251—but Fritz doesn't get away to tell the tale."
"What are these for?" asked Kenneth, kicking his boot against one of a pair of metal rails that ran fore and aft.
"Our tram-lines," explained the lieutenant-commander of Q 171. "A little device to clear decks for action in a brace of shakes. See our conning-tower and that superstructure arrangement abaft it? They're duds. Stand aside a minute, and I'll give a little demonstration of how things are worked. A bit further—that's it; now you are clear of the rails. Jackson!"
"Sir!"
A bearded petty officer came aft at a double, and awaited orders.
"The gadget!" exclaimed Morpeth laconically.
The man ran for'ard and was lost to sight beyond the break of the conning-tower.
Ten seconds later, impelled by a swift and invisible force, the conning-tower and the raised superstructure glided forward along the rails, leaving exposed in all their stark aggressiveness three large objects resembling exaggerated drain-pipes.
"Torpedo-tubes, by Jove!" exclaimed Wakefield.
"Guess you've never seen the type before," remarked the lieutenant-commander of Q 171. "They are shorter than the standard pattern, and, as you might observe, are not exactly parallel. Discharge all three torpedoes simultaneously, and they run on slightly divergent courses."
"Doesn't give Fritz much of a chance," observed Meredith.
"Not a dog's chance, old thing," rejoined Morpeth. "They're only 14-inch torpedoes, but they're just some. Blow a hole in a battleship's hull large enough to take a stage-coach, so you can imagine what happens when Fritz stops one—perhaps two, and very occasionally three. In a way a fellow can't help feeling sorry for Fritz, but he's asked for it all along the line. If he'd played a straight game with his U-boats we would have given him credit for what he'd done, and taken our chances. That chap who torpedoed ourCressy,Hogue, andAboukirearly in the war did a smart thing, and the Navy admitted it; but now all the decent U-boat skippers have packed up, or else have degenerated into low-down curs."
"Precisely," agreed Wakefield. "Hospital ships, and all that sort of business."
"Unarmed merchantmen—that's why we've had to take on the Q-boat stunt. Hardly seems proper jonnick to lure a Fritz within range, and then blow him to bits, but, as I said before, he's asked for it."
"Bagged many?"
"A few," admitted the R.N.R. man modestly; then, pleased at a sudden recollection, he squared his massive shoulders and burst into a hearty roar of laughter. "That reminds me of the last Fritz we scuppered. We had information that a U-boat was knocking around off Bass Rock, playing Old Harry with small coasting craft out of Arbroath and Granton, so we sent out the old s.s.Niblick—one of the Pink Funnel Line. She had been sold to a firm of ship-breakers, but when the pinch came they fitted her out again. Well, we followed an hour after theNiblickleft Montrose, got within range, and started firing at her, or rather putting shells into the sea within a hundred yards or so. Presently we sighted a periscope. Fritz couldn't quite understand things, since he imagined he was the only U-boat sculling around. But after a while he couldn't resist the temptation of joining in the pursuit, and he blew ballast-tanks and came to the surface at a cable's length broad on our starboard beam. Before he could get to work on theNiblickwith his bow quick-firer, he went to the bottom for good and all. It required only one of our torpedoes for that job."
"That's the stuff to give 'em!" exclaimed Meredith.
"It strikes me, Sub," observed Wakefield, as he stifled a yawn, "that we of the M.L. patrol will have to pack up. There's nothin' doin' for us now the Q-boats are out."
"Ever sighted a Fritz?" inquired Morpeth.
Wakefield was obliged to confess that he had not.
"I'm not surprised," continued the R.N.R. skipper. "Your little packets make too much noise. I wouldn't mind betting that Fritz has had a squint at you many a time through his periscope, and then he's promptly legged it. You're like a fat policeman on the track of a young burglar. It's the moral effect that tells. Before we cover up these beauties I'd like to show you the torpedoes."
With a dexterous movement Morpeth opened the breech of one of the tubes. Unlike the standard pattern, which is closed by means of six butterfly nuts, the breech mechanism consisted of an intercepted thread action somewhat similar to that of a quick-firer.
"We bagged that idea from the Hun," remarked Morpeth. "Now here is our tinfish: it has a range of only two miles, but quite enough for our purpose. Propulsive force, electric, and no fooling about with compressed air."
The M.L. officers examined the well-oiled glistening steel cylinders. In the bright moonlight the missiles looked harmless enough, but it took very little effort of the imagination to picture the fate of a craft torn by the explosion of fifty pounds of gun-cotton and aminol.
"The hydrophone-room," announced Morpeth, indicating a hatchway almost amidships. "That's nothing new to you, I'm sure. Here is our engine-room—petrol motors, of course."
"And your speed?" asked Wakefield.
"We are running normally—twelve knots."
"Yes—but all out?"
"With luck we might touch thirty-eight," was the unconcerned reply. "It isn't very often we do that—it's not necessary when we're Fritz-hunting—but when the Hun does come out with his light cruisers and torpedo boats, then we just show a clean pair of heels before they as much as sight us. Once they get an inkling that a British Q-boat is out disguised as a U-boat, then we may just as well pay off and save the taxpayers."
"But if their aircraft spotted you?" asked Meredith. "Your speed wouldn't help you much then."
"I agree," said Morpeth. "Aircraft are, in my opinion, unmitigated nuisances—that is, as far as we are concerned on this little stunt. When I see any of our blimps or flying-boats I get the wind up, because they naturally take us for a U-boat; and unless we're pretty smart at making our distinguishing signs, and they are equally smart at reading the same, they proceed with the utmost relish to strafe us. When I meet the Air Force fellows ashore I chip 'em and say it's because they're jealous."
"And when you spot a Hun 'plane?" inquired Wakefield.
"That's quite a different story. Just step aft a minute."
Morpeth led the way abaft the engine-room hatchway. On the centre line of the narrow deck was a metal flap about eighteen inches square.
"Our anti-aircraft gun is below there," observed the R.N.R. officer. "No, we don't lug it on deck. It's fired from below. Now, when a Hun spots us and we can't make ourselves scarce, we stop our engines and display a signal as per Imperial German Navy Code Book, a copy of which was issued to me by the British Admiralty."
"I know the thing," remarked Wakefield.
"Down swoops inquisitive Fritz," continued Morpeth, "and then we have him cold."
Wakefield stifled another yawn.
"'Scuse me," he murmured apologetically, "but it's not because I'm not interested. I am, really; but Nature is reminding me that I've had no sleep for the last twenty-four hours."
"By Jove! Why didn't you tell me before?" demanded Morpeth, in genuine concern. "Turn in, both of you, at once; and if you're out before the sun's over the fore-yard there'll be trouble."
"Right-o, on one condition," rejoined Wakefield.
The R.N.R. lieutenant-commander smiled grimly.
"I don't have fellows making conditions with the skipper of this hooker as a general rule," he remarked. "But what is it?"
"That we are called if there's any little stunt on," continued Wakefield.
"That's a deal," agreed Morpeth. "Good-night."
"Whata ghastly welcome!" soliloquised Leutnant Karl von Preussen, as he approached the "prohibited area" of Auldhaig. For the present his assumed name was Captain George Fennelburt, R.A.F., and in adopting the name and character he had left very little to chance. His pocket-book bulged with spurious official documents, printed in Germany, and replicas of papers that had either been surreptitiously obtained from British air stations, or had been found on captured men.
It was not a pleasant sort of evening. The sea mist had turned to a steady drizzle, accompanied by gusts of icy-cold wind. On the road, cut up by exceptionally heavy motor traffic, the mud lay four inches deep. Wearing a heavy trench coat, thick boots and leggings, and encumbered by a bulky haversack, von Preussen found himself decidedly hot and clammy before he had covered many miles of his long tramp.
He had studiously avoided the cliff road, preferring to make a detour inland and to approach Auldhaig from the railway station.
At length he gained the summit of the hill overlooking the town. On his left lay the important munition factory of Sauchieblair, shrouded in utter darkness, although there were aural evidences in plenty of the activity that was in progress day and night. A mile to the north gleamed lights. Von Preussen smiled grimly as he saw them. He knew precisely the meaning of the unscreened gleams. They were decoys, shown for the purpose of putting a raider off the scent, and up to a certain point had justified their existence.
Ahead lay Auldhaig, also shrouded in utter darkness. Neither in the wide ramifications of the landlocked harbour, nor from the vast expanse of wharves and docks, was there the faintest sign of a light; but the clatter of pneumatic hammers and the rumbling of locomotives indicated pretty plainly that the shipyards were running at high pressure.
Without difficulty, von Preussen passed the guard at the block-house on the bridge and entered the sombre town. It was now four o'clock in the morning, and the spy wisely decided to make for an hotel and have a much needed rest.
In response to a knock the door of the Antelope Hotel was opened by a sleepy night porter, who evinced no surprise at the belated arrival of a guest.
"You'll be registering in the morn, sir," he remarked.
"Thanks; I may as well register at once," replied the spy, not that he wanted to take the trouble to do so, but because he had ulterior motives.
In a bold hand he made the perfunctory declaration:—"George Fennelburt, Captn. R.A.F.; business—on duty; where stationed —Sheerness; name of Commanding Officer—Lieut.-Colonel H. B. L. Greathooks, O.B.E."
"Silly lot of rot, sir," remarked the porter, "giving a gent no end of trouble. If you was to put down 'Julius Caesar' or 'Christopher Columbus' I don't see as how it 'ud matter."
"It's regulations, you know," said von Preussen, handing the fellow half a crown. "Now get me a glass of something hot and a snack. I'm hungry."
The porter hurried off to execute the commission, pondering in his mind on the inconsistency of the officer, who almost in one breath had upheld the regulations and had broken them in the matter of obtaining liquor during prohibited hours.
Seizing his opportunity during the man's absence, von Preussen scanned the pile of registration forms lying on the reception clerk's desk. It behoved him to ascertain "who's who" with regard to the naval, military and air officers staying at the hotel—particularly the latter, as he had no desire to meet anyone hailing from Sheerness or Isle of Grain air stations.
Satisfied on that point, the spy went to bed, apologising for the muddy state of his boots by stating that he had missed the last train from Nedderburn, and had been compelled to walk to Auldhaig.
He slept soundly till close on eleven in the morning. At noon, spick and span, he made his way to Auldhaig Dockyard, with the plausible intention of inspecting X-lighters, but with the real object of keeping his ears and eyes open.
Noon was a well-chosen time. The dockyard "maties" had knocked off work for dinner, while the officials, with the prospects of lunch in the near distance, would almost certainly request the pseudo-Captain Fennelburt to call again at three. That meant, once inside the dockyard gates, the spy had three hours in which to make useful observations.
The first official he called upon was the Senior Naval Officer, who, forgetting that the X-barges had left early that morning in the charge of Sub-lieutenant Jock McIntosh, R.N.V.R., referred Captain Fennelburt to the Captain of the Dockyard. That individual, who had a dim recollection that the craft in question were in his charge and were about to be handed over to the Royal Air Force, requested thesoi-disantrepresentative of that branch of the Service to inquire of the Chief Writer. The Chief Writer, about to go to lunch, summoned the Head Messenger, who in turn told off a messenger to accompany Captain Fennelburt on his search for the elusive X-lighters.
For the next three-quarters of an hour the spy was hurried to and fro over the slippery cobble-stones of Auldhaig Dockyard. He saw very little that would be of service to the Imperial German Government. For one reason, the messenger stuck like a leech and lost no time, since he too was wanting his dinner. For another, everything in the way of new ship construction was being done under cover, while zealous, lynx-eyed policemen—picked men from the Metropolitan Police Force—were everywhere in evidence; and von Preussen had a wholesome respect for men in blue.
"What's that vessel?" inquired von Preussen, indicating a tramp steamer with her sides and deck covered with tarpaulins.
"Merchantman, sir," replied his escort.
"Why is she in a Government dock?" continued the spy. "I thought tramp steamers would be repaired in the commercial dock."
"So would she," answered the man. "Only there wasn't room. Torpedoed, she was, 'bout a month ago."
"Then why all that canvas over her?" asked von Preussen, beginning to find himself on the track of something mysterious.
"'Tis like this, sir," explained his companion with the utmost gravity. "Her captain is living on board, an' 'e's got a bald 'ead. When it rains they rigs up an awning to keep the drops off 'is pate, 'cause 'e gets awfully up the pole an' leads the crew a regular dog's life if he's upset by gettin' 'is 'ead wet."
"I perceive you are a humorist," remarked von Preussen drily.
"Didn't know it, sir," rejoined the man. "My mates usually call me 'Mouldy Bill.' But hangin' around 'ere won't find what you're lookin' for, sir, so let's make a move."
It was an application of "official reticence and reserve" on the part of this minor servant of the Admiralty. He knew perfectly well that the tramp was in reality a Q-boat, and that under those canvas awnings lay hidden a collection of mysterious "gadgets," for a detailed description of which the authorities at Berlin would give a high sum in gold.
To linger would arouse suspicion, so reluctantly the spy followed his guide on what he knew to be a vain quest for craft that were no longer at Auldhaig.
"Why not try the Kite and Balloon Section of the R.A.F.?" suggested an official. "The depot is just across the harbour. I'll let you have a boat."
Von Preussen debated before replying. The offer was a tempting one, for not only would he get a chance of having a closer view of various warships in the stream, but there was no telling what information he might pick up at the depot. On the other hand, he didn't want to be asked awkward questions by men wearing the same uniform as himself. He knew, however, that it was no exception to detail perfectly incompetent officers on inspection duties. He had heard of a case of one who hardly knew one end of a boat from another who was sent on a 700-mile journey to report upon some rowing-boats about to be purchased for a station in the south of England.
"Thanks," he replied. "I may even yet get on the track of those elusive X-barges."
Twenty minutes later von Preussen was seated in the stern-sheets of a harbour service duty boat. To his guarded inquiries of the coxwain as to the names of the vessels lying at the buoys, he received an equally guarded answer:
"Dunno, sir they comes and goes all hours of the day and night, an' not havin' no names painted on 'em, and bein' all disguised-like, I can't tell no more'n a nooborn baby."
The duty-boat rubbed gently alongside the stone steps of the jetty. Von Preussen stepped ashore, returned the sentry's salute, and inquired the way to the adjutant's office.
"X-barges?" queried the adjutant. "None this side. We used to borrow 'em from the dockyard, but we transferred most of our observation balloons more than a month ago, and so we don't require the barges. But now you are here, come and have lunch. It's close on one-thirty."
"Many fellows here?" asked the spy, as he accompanied his host across the wide parade-ground to a long wooden hut used as the mess.
"Twenty," was the reply. "All old R.F.C. and R.N.A.S. men. Most of them have been here for quite a long time. It's a posh station, and once here a fellow doesn't want to be transferred elsewhere."
In the absence of the commanding officer, the head of the table was taken by the major. On his right sat the adjutant. Next to him was placed von Preussen, who on his right had a youngster who looked barely eighteen, yet he wore a captain's uniform, embellished by the ribbons of the D.S.O. and M.C.
The lunch was liberal and appetising. Deft-handed girls in W.R.A.F. uniforms were kept busily employed in attending to the wants of twenty odd ravenous officers, for the keen northern air, combined with plenty of out-door activity, created vast appetites.
As the meal progressed, conversation, at first desultory, grew in volume and interest. Although "shop" figured largely, strictly official matters were rigidly tabooed. Von Preussen had again to confess that from his point of view he was getting precious little change out of the entertainment.
"Did you say you were from Calshot?" inquired the officer on the spy's right.
"No—from Sheerness," replied von Preussen, devoutly hoping that none of the men present had been stationed there recently.
"Who said Calshot?" inquired an indignant voice lower down the table. "Beastly hole!"
"What's that?" demanded the major.
"Had to spend a night there, sir," was, the reply. "Forced landing. They gave me a cubicle that was more like a condemned cell. Concrete walls and floor dripping with moisture; not even a mat on the floor; a bedstead without a mattress and only two blankets. No other furniture. In the morning I had the worst breakfast I ever had on this side of the North Sea. Filthy margarine, rancid bacon and weak tea; and they took jolly good care to make me plank down half a dollar on the nail for my breakfast. Ugh! Makes me shudder to think of it."
"Sheerness," remarked the captain, returning to the attack. "You must know Smithers, then? A big, fat chap, with a mole just under his eye. He's been quartermaster there since '16."
Von Preussen acknowledged that he knew the quartermaster. He could not very well have denied it in the face of his inquisitor's remarks.
"And Tomlinson?" continued the latter. "Suppose he's still there, but I haven't heard from him recently. A short, very dark-featured old bean, with a very dry sense of humour. Plays 'pack and brag' every available five minutes, and uses most atrocious language when he's put out and when he isn't."
"Tomlinson was sent to Dunkirk last month," declared von Preussen mendaciously; then, eager to change what was a most distasteful and embarrassing topic, he inquired:
"Is there a decent theatre at Auldhaig?"
"Not bad," replied Captain Cumberleigh—for that was the name of von Preussen's heckler. "'Maid of the Mountains' is on to-night. Seen it? Then, by Jove, you must, you priceless old thing!" he exclaimed effusively. "No, we won't take a refusal. We've booked a box, and you simply must come. After your fruitless journey to inspect those X-lighters, you owe yourself some relaxation. And I say, Jefferson," he continued, addressing a lieutenant across the table, "we'll take Fennelburt out fishing this afternoon, just to kill time. Fine sport just off the harbour."
"I ought to be on my way back," protested von Preussen, as he weighed up the possible advantages and disadvantages of remaining at Auldhaig Air Station.
"Rot, you conscientious old blighter!" said Cumberleigh boisterously. "In any case, you wouldn't get further than Edinburgh to-night. We'll fix you up with a cabin, and you'll be all O.K., old bean!"