pig
pig
[Illustration: "ENGLISCH OFFIZIER-PIG!" HE SHOUTED. "WE YOU TAKE PRISONER"]
[Illustration: "ENGLISCH OFFIZIER-PIG!" HE SHOUTED. "WE YOU TAKE PRISONER"]
Yet not for one moment did a single British member of the party show signs of being dismayed. Even the badly wounded men cracked jokes with their comrades, while others, whose injuries were of a slighter nature, insisted on being allowed to take their turn at baling.
Von Brockdorff-Giespert, on the other hand, looked the picture of misery and despair. He grumbled incessantly, asserting, with true Hunnish arrogance, that he was being neglected by his captors. It was not until he was sternly threatened, if he did not hold his tongue, that the Count began to realize that there was a limit beyond which even he must not go when in the company of British tars.
"There's a craft of sorts," announced the bowman, who, maintaining a precarious perch on the thwart, was scanning the horizon.
"Away on the starboard bow. Think she is coming this way."
"Wave your scarf, Lofty," suggested another member of the crew.
The man began to unwrap his "comforter". Then very abruptly he sat down.
"We'll hang on a little longer, mates," he said in a low voice. "I don't quite like the look of her. Strikes me she's a Fritz."
"By smoke, you're right!" exclaimed another, taking a cautious view of the oncoming craft. "A dirty U-boat. Lie down all hands. 'Ere, you blinkin' Fritz, none of your capers. Stow it!"
Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert, on hearing of the approach of what was apparently a German submarine, was making an effort to stand up and attract his compatriots' attention.
"It is time for me to do as I like," he replied, sneeringly.
"Is it? Then you're jolly well mistaken," retorted the stroke of the whaler, as he ostentatiously spat upon his hands and gripped a boat-stretcher.
The German's beady eyes contracted, and, thinking that discretion is ever the better art of valour, he shrugged his shoulders, and then winced with pain.
There was soon no doubt as to the type and nationality of the approaching craft. She was a U-boat. She was running on the surface. On the platform in the wake of the elongated conning-tower stood two men in black oilskins. At times completely enveloped in clouds of spray, they were intently searching the horizon either on the watch for likely prey or else keeping a sharp look-out for the dreaded British submarine-hunters.
"Looks like giving us the go-by after all," whispered one of the whaler's men, as the U-boat bore broadside on at a distance of about three-quarters of a mile.
"Let her," added his mate fervently. "Us don't want to see the likes of she just now. I'd give a month's pay to have her at yon range for twenty seconds."
"O, Lud!" exclaimed another with a grunt "she's starboarding helm. She's spotted us, lads!"
Clearly the whaler's crew were "in the soup", for the U-boat had altered course and was bearing down upon the luckless British seamen. Four or five hands made their way for'ard of the German craft's conning-tower, and in a few seconds a 4.7-inch gun rose from its place of concealment. Quickly the sinister weapon was manned and trained full at the helpless boat's crew.
"Murderous swine!" exclaimed the bowman, shaking his fist in futile defiance of the pirates.
Moments of intense suspense followed, yet the Huns refrained from opening fire. It might have been a matter for precaution that the quick-firer was trained upon the whaler; but, on the other hand, there was abundant evidence in the past to prove that the modern pirates had no scruples about murdering in cold blood the survivors of torpedoed merchantmen.
The while the officers outside the conning-tower were still busy with their binoculars. One of them kept the whaler under observation, while the other, evidently fearing a trap, swept the waste of water in case the periscope of a British submarine were watching Fritz with a view to blowing him to atoms.
Raising himself with his uninjured arm, Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert shouted something in German. The distance was still too great to enable the U-boat's officers to understand. This time the Count was not called to order, for the whaler's crew knew only too well that the tables had been turned.
Slowing down, and then reversing her engines, the U-boat came to a standstill within twenty yards of the survivors of theBolero.
"Vot boat is dat?" hailed the U-boat's unter-leutnant. "Vere you from? Vot is der name of der schip you vos come from?"
"Better tell him civil-like," suggested the bow-man. "So here goes."
But von Brockdorff-Giespert again took up his parable. Speaking volubly, he quickly explained matters to his satisfaction. Although none of the British seamen understood German, the purport of the Count's words were sufficiently plain to them.
Interpolated with numerous "Ja, Herr Kapitan" from the obsequious unter-leutnant of the U-boat, von Brockdorff-Giespert gave a string of orders. The whaler was then commanded to come alongside, and the Count was assisted on board the submarine.
"Now," thought Alec, "he's out of it. Wonder if the dirty dogs are going, to turn a machine-gun on us, or ram the boat."
His natural curiosity was quickly satisfied, for the unter-leutnant, stepping to the rail, leered down into the boat.
"Englisch offizier-pig!" he shouted. "You der hospitality of Zherman U-boat must make. We you take prisoner."
The Sub-lieutenant made the best of a bad job. Although weak with exhaustion and exposure to the elements, he held his head high as he was taken on board the submarine.
The coxswain and stroke of the whaler, who had assisted their young officer, were curtly ordered back. The U-boat was not engaged upon an errand of mercy. It was the British officer who was wanted for a definite purpose. The men did not count. In the eyes of the Germans the hapless British seamen were almost beneath notice, although in other circumstances the Huns would have feared to have met them in fair fight.
As he gained the bulging deck of the pirate craft, Seton, steadying himself by the guard-rail, turned to bid good-bye and good luck to his men. Guessing his intention the unter-leutnant gave a curt order. Instantly two German sailors laid hold of the British officer; and without ceremony took him below.
In the act of descending the vertical ladder, Alec caught sight of Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert and the kapitan of the U-boat. Both were vastly enjoying the British officer's discomfiture. Count Otto, in spite of his injuries and dishevelled appearance, was smoking a cigar and holding a steaming cup of "coffee substitute".
"I owe this young Englishman a debt," he remarked grimly to the commander of the U-boat. "I will take good care that I repay it with interest."
It was the Prussian touch all over. Von Brockdorff-Giespert totally ignored the fact that his foes had saved his life. He attributed his misfortunes mainly to Sub-lieutenant Seton, as if the latter had been actuated by feelings of personal animosity rather than sheer devotion to duty. Already the Hun had made up his mind to inflict every possible indignity upon the prisoner.
Confined in a cramped, ill-ventilated and ill-lighted compartment in close proximity to the wireless-generator-room, Seton strained his ears in the hope of finding out what had happened to his whaler's crew. The purr of the electric motors and the noise of men's voices echoing and re-echoing in the interior of the huge metal cylinder deadened all sounds from without.
The U-boat was submerging. Apparently she had not used her guns upon the boat, for the recoil of the weapons would have been noticeable. There was, however, the horrible possibility that, before diving, the submarine had deliberately rammed the boat. Or, perhaps the Huns had shot down every man in the whaler by rifle and pistol. That was one of Fritz's little stunts—cold-blooded butchery.
After a while Alec thought it was time to look after himself, since his captors evidently had no intention of attending to his personal comfort. The warmth of the cell caused the moisture to steam from his saturated clothes. Divesting himself of his garments he wrung them out, and began to exercise his limbs to ward off the numbness that assailed them.
Presently the door of his cell was thrown open and a seaman appeared carrying a bowl of hot soup.
"Can I have my clothes dried?" asked Alec.
"It's not my work to dry the clothes of a schweinhund," replied the fellow in English. Then he pointed to the Sub's wristlet watch.
"For that I will dry your things," he added.
"Right," replied Alec. "It isn't going, though. The water's spoilt it."
"That is to be expected," rejoined the German, picking up the saturated garments. Then waiting until Alec had handed over his watch, he went out, to return presently with a canvas suit, rust-marked and greasy.
"In case Herr Kapitan sends for you," explained the man, and without another word he again backed out of the compartment and locked the door.
While waiting for the soup to cool, the Sub, with feelings of repugnance, put on the loaned suit. It felt damp and clammy and smelt vilely. As for the soup it was little better than dish-water, greasy and unpalatable, while with deliberate intent an excessive quantity of salt had been put into the liquid. Nevertheless Alec took a considerable quantity, for he was desperately famished, and the hot concoction warmed his chilled body, for even in the warm atmosphere cold chills were persistently passing over him.
For several hours—how long Alec had no accurate idea—the U-boat ran submerged. As far as he could estimate it was about noon when she came to the surface, only to dive again very quickly, to the accompaniment of a couple of bombs from a British sea-plane. Although wide of the mark the explosion of the missiles gave the submarine a nasty shaking up, so much so, that the startled Huns allowed their craft to rest on the bed of the North Sea until nightfall before resuming their course.
It was during this period of enforced detention that Alec was summoned to be examined by Kapitan-leutnant von Kloster.
Clad solely in his borrowed canvas suit, unshaven and unkempt, Alec felt his position keenly. He realized that it was a hard matter to preserve his dignity, when his appearance was like that of a greaser of a third-rate tramp.
Attended by two stolid German seamen the prisoner was taken to the kapitan's cabin. Seated on a settee by a narrow folding table were Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert and Kapitan-leutnant von Kloster. The former was rigged out in a uniform that evidently was von Kloster's, judging by the fact that the Count was lightly-built and his borrowed garments fitted him like a sack. His injured arm was in a sling, while, as the result of his immersion and subsequent prolonged stay in the whaler, he had contracted a very bad cold.
Von Kloster, on the other hand, was stout, florid-featured, and well-groomed. He had the typical Prussian "square head", the contour of the back of his head and neck forming practically a straight line. His moustache he wore with the points upturned after the fashion set by his Imperial master.
On a camp-stool at the other end of the table sat the unter-leutnant, Kaspar Diehardt, a very young and very bumptious Prussian. His bulging forehead contrasted vividly with his insignificant, receding chin, while his watery blue eyes belied the suggestion that he could ever become an efficient leader of men.
With paper and ink in front of him he sat gnawing the end of his quill pen, as if his thoughts were constantly of the ever-present danger that threatened those who go down into the sea in German submarines.
In his broken English von Kloster demanded Alec's name, rank, the vessel to which he belonged and her approximate position when torpedoed.
"You may yourself think fortunate that no lies you haf told," remarked his interrogator. "All this information I haf. Now, tell me: for what reason was derBoleroan' oder schips off der Nord Hinder?"
"That I cannot tell you," replied the Sub.
"Do you know?"
"I refuse to answer this question."
The Kapitan-leutnant addressed several words to his subordinate, the latter writing diligently for some moments.
It was an acute period of suspense for Seton. The silence was only broken by the scratching of the temporary secretary's pen, while the Count and von Kloster kept their eyes fixed on the prisoner. Alec was beginning to feel the effects of the salt soup. A burning thirst gripped his throat.
"Now, you have time had," continued his inquisitor. "Will you answer?"
Seton shook his head. Even if he wanted to speak his parched tongue seemed unequal to the task. But that was not the reason. At all costs, he determined to refuse to give any information likely to be of service to the enemy.
"Answer!" shouted Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert, bringing his fist down upon the table and wincing at the effort.
"Water!" gasped Alec.
The Kapitan-leutnant gave an order to one of the men. The fellow saluted and went out, presently to return with a carafe full of water, and a glass. Very deliberately von Kloster filled the glass almost to the brim and offered it to the prisoner. Then, as Seton stepped eagerly forward to take the liquid, the Kapitan-leutnant withdrew the glass.
"After you spoken haf, not before," he reminded with tantalizing cunning.
"I see you to blazes first!" Alec said hoarsely, with an effort.
"Ach, goot!" rejoined von Kloster sneeringly. "We shall see. I leave der matter in der hands of mine chief."
"Quite so," assented Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert. "I may tell you, prisoner, that the information you refuse to give is already at our disposal. How remains our affair? I can tell you this with absolute certainty: either you will remain a prisoner of war until the end of hostilities, or you will not leave this U-boat alive. Rescue is entirely out of the question. Hence it does not matter whether I tell you a British naval secret. Those tramp steamers you were escorting were decoys. It was the intention of the British Admiral to sacrifice those ships in the hope that our torpedo-boat flotilla at Zeebrugge would be lured out to bite a tempting bait. While our boats were engaged thus, your destroyers were to attempt a raid upon our new naval base, which, like Antwerp in the time of Napoleon, is a pistol aimed at the heart of England. Unfortunately for you, the plan miscarried. Instead of our torpedo flotilla appearing, some of ourunterseebootenwere lying at the rendezvous, and, as a result, you are here."
He paused to watch the effect of his words. Not a muscle of the Sub's face moved. Outwardly his face was an imperturbable mask, although he was suffering the torments of acute thirst.
"And, since you are, like many others of our enemies, very curious to know what is developing at Zeebrugge," continued the Count, "it will afford me great pleasure there to offer you hospitality—of a kind. I mean to provide you with quarters and rations in a comfortable post on the Mole of Zeebrugge. If your pestering compatriots come flying over and drop bombs, and you happen to fall a victim, the responsibility is theirs, not mine. If, again, you are anxious to exchange your quarters for others beyond the Rhine, you have but to answer a few questions and the transfer will take effect."
Then, finding that Seton was apparently quite indifferent to this proposal, von Brockdorff-Giespert lost all control of his temper.
For fully two minutes he raved and threatened both in English and German. Had it not been for his injuries he would doubtless have struck his prisoner in the face. At length, after giving various instructions to von Kloster and Unter-leutnant Diehardt, he ordered the prisoner to be removed.
"The rascals look like being right," thought Alec on finding himself again in the cell. "Either this U-boat returns to Zeebrugge, or she does not. If she doesn't, it means that she'll be strafed properly. The Huns seem keenly alive to the possibility."
The Sub had not been very many minutes alone, when the seaman returned with his clothes. Giving a sort of superior smile, the fellow placed the bundle on the floor, and, without a word, backed out and relocked the door.
A brief examination showed that the Hun had broken the compact. He had Alec's wristlet watch, but no attempt had been made to dry the things. The uniform and underclothes were almost as wet as when Alec had arrived on board the U-boat.
Two hours later the submarine blew her ballast tanks and rose to the surface. The electric-motors were cut off, and the surface petrol-engines started and coupled up. All immediate danger was past, and the U-boat once more shaped a course for Zeebrugge.
Presently Seton was given another bowl of so-called soup and a piece of black bread. One taste of the former was sufficient. It was excessively salt. The bread, too, had a saline taste, and was as dry as sawdust, but Alec derived some relief to his burning throat by slowly chewing the unpalatable substance.
"And I've to thank the British Navy for this," thought Alec, critically regarding the black war bread. "Evidently efficacious, if Fritz and all his kind are compelled to carry on with this. Hallo! What's the game now?"
For the U-boat had suddenly commenced to submerge once more, the steep diving angle indicating that the action was not entirely voluntary on the part of her nerve-racked pirate crew.
"And the run across to Ostend?" inquired Sub-lieutenant Guy Branscombe of M.-L. 4452.
"A wash-out," replied his superior officer, Lieutenant Frank Farnborough.
Branscombe expressed no surprise at the information. During the war there were innumerable instances of orders being given, of plans carefully laid, and preparations made sometimes for weeks in advance, then, at the last hour, they would be countermanded. In Service parlance the abandonment of any particular project is generally referred to as a "wash-out".
M.-L. 4452 was lying in the outer harbour of Ramsgate. It was dead low water, but sufficient for the M.-L. to lie afloat alongside the eastern arm of the stone pier that towered twenty-five to thirty feet above the deck of the trim little craft.
She had had a quick, uneventful run round from the Firth of Forth, and upon reporting at Dover had been ordered to lie in Ramsgate Harbour, owing to certain activities in progress at the former base. It was on the cards that M.-L. 4452, in company with five sister ships, was to take part in important operations off the Belgian coast—operations requiring courage and discretion, and far from being devoid of great risk to life and limb.
For her size the M.-L. was a comfortable packet. True, she rolled heavily in a seaway and was unhandy on her helm when running at slow speed. Built of wood and equipped with two powerful eight-cylinder motors, she could attain a speed of twenty-six knots.
For'ard she carried a 3-inch quick-firer. In the wake of the gun-mounting rose the wheel-house, surmounted by a small but powerful searchlight. Her single mast supported a complex array of wireless gear and a cross-yard with necessary signalling halyards. On the slightly raised deck-house was a dinghy in chocks, the davits being swung inboard. The boat was made of thin sheet iron, with water-tight compartments fore and aft and was sufficiently light to enable two hands to haul her up and down a beach. Judging by the dents and bulges in the dinghy's sides she had already been called upon to do useful work.
Right aft fluttered the White Ensign, an emblem under which few if any, of the motor-boat officers ever dreamt of sailing prior to the eventful August, 1914.
On either side and slightly in advance of the ensign staff, M.-L. 4452, like a hornet, carried her sting in her tail; for here were two powerful depth charges, capable of shattering the plating of a U-boat within a radius of fifty or sixty yards from the source of the explosion.
Below, the M.-L. was provided with ample accommodation—far more than the casual outside observer would give her credit for.
The crew, consisting of seven hands, were berthed for'ard. Then came the store rooms and wireless and hydrophone rooms. Abaft were the galleys, the ward-room one opening into the officers' living quarters.
The ward-room was a picture of cosiness. The M.-L.'s skipper had seen to that, for he had been sufficiently long in the Service to know the ropes. A few gallons of white enamel, drawn from the dockyard store, had worked wonders on the walls and ceiling of the ward-room, while the beams and timbers had been painted a dark brown to represent oak. The result was that the place resembled the interior of an old-fashioned half-timbered house, while, to carry out the scheme, the electric lamps were encased in cardboard, cut in the fashion of eighteenth-century lanterns.
Opening out of the ward-room were the two-bunked sleeping quarters for the officers, also enamelled tastefully and effectively. At the present time these were in a somewhat disordered state, oilskins, sea-boots, and pilotcoats dumped promiscuously, bearing a silent testimony to the fact that M.-L. 4452 had encountered heavy weather in the Straits of Dover.
Frank Farnborough, lieutenant and skipper of the M.-L., was a tall, slimly-built man of twenty-five. In civil life he was a consulting engineer, who was just beginning to make a name for himself when war broke out. His chief pastime was yachting, and in his little weatherly nine-ton yawl he had visited and was well acquainted with every port and haven between the Humber and the Lizard, and had a nodding acquaintance with the Dutch and Belgian coast and that of France from Dunkirk to Brest.
On the formation of the Motor Boat Reserve he had joined on as an ordinary deckhand, but it was not long before his experience and ability gained him a commission.
His sub, Guy Branscombe, has already been introduced.
Every man of the crew was an amateur yachtsman. In private life they were respectively barrister, mining engineer, Manchester merchant, two ex-public schoolboys, a stockbroker, and a bank clerk. The barrister, senior in point of age, was ship's cook, he having voluntarily taken on the job, and, considering it was doubtful whether he ever made even a cup of tea for himself prior to 1914, he did remarkably well.
The discipline on board would have turned the hair of a pukka R.N. officer grey; but still there was discipline of sorts. They had been shipmates since 1916, turning over from another M.-L., that had perished gloriously in an endeavour to assist a torpedoed liner, when 4452 was received from the contractors.
Altogether they were a jovial, hard-working band of comrades. The men had as much yachting as they wanted, summer and winter alike, with the excitement of hunting Fritz or the chance of bumping on a drifting mine thrown in. Yet, far from being fed-up, for they realized that life on an M.-L. was infinitely preferable to foot-slogging in the infantry, their zest was enhanced rather than dimmed.
Only a few minutes before the skipper's return, Branscombe had been talking with Able Seaman Brown, R.N.V.R., and stockbroker.
"As a matter of fact, sir," remarked Brown, "I'm seriously thinking that after the war—if the war is ever going to end—I'll buy an M.-L. There'll be hundreds on the market and I guess the Admiralty will be lucky if they get 300 pounds a piece for them."
"And what then?" asked the Sub. "You may be a budding millionaire, but no man in ordinary circumstances could afford to run one of these hookers."
"That's where you are mistaken, sir, I fancy," replied A. B. Brown. "These packets will be purchasable after the war for a matter of a few hundred pounds. I'd take out the engines and sell them. They'd come in handy for electric light plant for a country house or something of that sort. Then I'd get a single 40-60 H.P. Kelvin motor, which uses paraffin instead of petrol, and couple up the twin screws. That's my little castle in the air for after the war, sir."
"Tea ready?" enquired the skipper. "No? Well, there's time to give the dogs a run ashore."
He eyed the twenty-five foot vertical ladder somewhat dubiously. It was strong enough, but a considerable portion towards the lower end was slippery with seaweed and slime. Then he whistled to two large sheep-dogs who were coiled up in the stern sheets of the dinghy.
Peter and Paul were recognized members of M.-L. 4452's complement. They belonged to Frank Farnborough but had been adopted by every individual on board. Both animals had been violently seasick on the first occasion when they put to sea, but from that time onwards, blow high or blow low, they behaved like seasoned sons of the sea.
"Send 'em up in a bowline," suggested Branscombe.
"Hardly good enough," objected the Lieutenant. "I'll carry them up, one at a time."
Placing Peter on his back and holding on to one paw, Farnborough began his somewhat hazardous climb. All went well for the first half, and then a catastrophe occurred. It was owing to a large ginger cat that was prowling along the very edge of the quay. Peter spotted her, and began barking. The feline arched her back and spat defiance. This insult was more than the sheep-dog could stand. He began to struggle furiously. His master's admonition to "shut up" was ignored. The next instant Farnborough's feet slipped on the slimy rung, and, hampered by the heavy animal, he fell upon the deck.
It was a drop of about twelve feet, but sufficient to make the Lieutenant writhe. His right ankle was badly sprained, while, to make matters worse, he had struck his back against the edge of the raised cabin-top. Peter, unhurt, but genuinely concerned, began to lick his master's hand.
"Nothing much," declared Farnborough in answer to Branscombe's inquiry. "Bit of a twist to my ankle, that's all. Lucky thing old Peter wasn't hurt, the silly old ass!"
One of the men, taking each dog in turn under his arm, made the ascent in safety, and the now docile animals went off to visit a great friend—the cook at the Naval Base Canteen.
"I'll have to turn in for half an hour or so," declared Farnborough. "My ankle is giving me socks. It'll be all right soon. What? Go to the medico for a little thing like that? No, thanks; besides, we are under orders to sail at eight."
"Not the stunt?" asked Branscombe.
"No, laddie; I said it was a wash-out," replied the skipper. "It's coming off all in good time; can take your affidavit on that. . . . By Jove! that was a bit of a twister," he added with a wry smile as he carefully lowered himself down the steep companion ladder to the ward-room. "Quite all right, though. A little embrocation will soon set matters right."
Having laid himself on his bunk, Farnborough drew an envelope from the inside breast-coat pocket of his monkey-jacket.
"Here you are!" he remarked, giving his sub the contents of the envelope. "Usual thing. You might see that the dogs are on board before we start. I'll get you to take the old hooker out, old man."
Guy Branscombe scanned the typewritten orders. They were marked "Confidential", which is a word that in Service matters may mean a lot, or nothing. Often orders of the most trivial character are so marked, possibly by a minor official who wishes to magnify the importance of his particular work. Consequently, there is a tendency to under-estimate the significance of the word "Confidential". It is another instance of "Familiarity breeds contempt".
However, in this case the orders were important. M.-L.'s 4452, 4453, 4454, and 4455 were to proceed on patrol between certain positions. A reference to the chart showed that the limits were from a point six miles north-west of the mouth of the Scheldt to a point five miles due north (true) of the Sandettie Bank Lightship. Three large destroyers from the Dover patrol were to act as covering vessels, while a couple of monitors, each armed with a single 17-inch gun, were to keep Fritz on thorns by lobbing a few shells with uncanny accuracy upon the fortifications of Zeebrugge.
The special task of the M.-L.'s was to keep a look-out for a squadron of bombing aeroplanes, which were engaged in liberally plastering the Mole and canal locks of Zeebrugge with tons of high explosives. Should a seaplane become disabled and be compelled to alight on the sea, then the handy little craft would speed to the rescue, in spite of the fact that they were within range of the long-distance German guns on the Belgian coast.
"All plain sailing?" asked Farnborough. "Good! If you'll take her out, and call me at eight bells, I'll be eternally grateful to you. So the old hooker's going to have her baptism of fire."
Punctually to the appointed minute, M.-L. 4452 cast off and proceeded seaward. Her sister ships had preceded her, and were running in single column line ahead. It was a pitch-dark night. The sea was as smooth as the proverbial mill-pond. Shoreward the land was enshrouded in darkness, not a light being visible. Viewed from a short distance, the Kentish coast, normally defined by lines of twinkling lights, but now looming faintly against the sombre sky, looked more like a desolate land than a populous corner of England, literally linked by a chain of seaside towns.
The M.-L.'s were under way without navigation lights, only a small lamp astern of each enabling those following to keep station. The little craft were cleared for action, for it had been known that hostile torpedo-boats had approached within a few miles of the port of Dover.
Branscombe, standing by the quarter-master in the little wheel-house, fully realized the danger of the operation. He revelled in it, notwithstanding the fact that the M.-L.'s were passing over one of the most heavily-mined portions of the sea adjoining the British Isles. A few fathoms beneath the boat's keel were mines in hundreds, that, in conjunction with nets and other elaborate devices, formed an impregnable barrier to the passage of German U-boats. As long as the mines remained anchored and submerged they were dangerous only to the type of craft they were intended to destroy; but after the heavy blow of the last few days there was a possibility, nay, a probability, that some would break adrift and float on the surface, a menace to those who had lawful business upon the waters, a prospect sufficient to stimulate the imagination—if not to get on the nerves—of the hardiest mariner.
It was almost on this very spot twelve months previously that Branscombe had ordered the gun's crew to open fire at what he took to be a periscope, but what, on closer examination, proved to be a derelict boat-hook; while on another occasion the Sub, inexperienced in those days, saw a large dark object slither under the water. To his excited imagination it could be nothing less than a U-boat, hurriedly diving to escape detection. Ordering full-speed ahead, Branscombe steered straight for the rippling swell, and detonated a depth charge on the spot where the submarine had vanished. A badly mutilated porpoise came up in the cascade of foam.
The Sub was badly chipped for some considerable time over the affair, but it was excusable. The M.-L.'s motto is to hit and hit hard at anything of a suspicious nature. Explanations, if necessary, can follow later, but one has to take no chances with Fritz and all his dirty tricks.
It speaks well for the courageous temperament of the British sailor that he has stuck it for more than four years, living in momentary danger of being blown sky-high by an unseen mine or by a torpedo from a lurking foe, and yet is able to laugh and joke unrestrainedly with his comrades, and to take the keenest interest in sport. During the whole period of the war, the British navy faced dangers and thrived; while the Huns, having no traditions to hold up, and running little risk, as they rarely put to sea beyond the shelter of their own minefields, were slowly but surely drifting to moral suicide that culminated in mutiny and the disgraceful surrender of Germany's fleet.
In spite of the unrestricted U-boat campaign, there was a constant stream of merchantmen passing round the Forelands to and from London River. Those outward bound were making for the Downs, there to await escort to the convoy. All these ships, fantastically camouflaged and steaming without lights, made navigation doubly difficult, and it was not until North Foreland was several miles astern and the M.-L. out of the recognized sailing routes that Branscombe began to feel more at ease.
"Eight bells, sir," reported Anderson, wireless man, and ex-bank clerk.
Being in the war zone, and at night, the actual striking on the ship's bell was dispensed with.
"Very good," replied the Sub, and turning to another man he asked him to inform the Captain.
In five minutes the man returned.
"I've been trying to get the skipper on deck, sir," he reported, "but I'm afraid it's no use. It's not only his ankle that's causing trouble but his back is rather badly bruised. Moving about after lying down has made matters worse."
Guy picked up a signal pad and wrote a message, telling Farnborough not to worry but to take things quietly; meanwhile, he (Branscombe) would carry on, reporting anything unusual.
It was against regulations for both officers to leave the deck at the same time; hence Guy had to send down a chit. This done he prepared for at least a twenty-four hours' "trick".
Rapidly the booming of the heavy guns grew louder and louder. The air trembled under the terrific reverberations of the contesting ordnance, for Fritz was not backward in replying to the fire of the British monitors.
Peter and Paul, to whose sensitive nerves the continuous concussions did not appeal at all, had abandoned their post in the dinghy, and had retired to the comparative shelter of the after sleeping-cabin. The fact that the ladder was almost vertical and seven feet in height did not trouble them. They merely settled the matter by jumping, alighting on Branscombe's bed, where they made themselves as comfortable as possible in the distressing circumstances.
Presently dense masses of smoke on the horizon betokened the presence of the monitors. Each, her presence screened by artificial fog emitted from the attendant destroyers, was firing with her 17-inch gun at extreme elevation, dropping tons of H.E. shells upon an invisible target, while seaplanes, hovering overhead, recorded by means of wireless the result of each discharge.
Within a mile of the unwieldy floating batteries the M.-L. altered course, keeping parallel to the invisible shore. It was an inspiring scene. In the rifts of the smoke-screen could be discerned the tripod masts, enormous top-hamper and up-trained guns of the monitors. With every shot the vessels heeled, until, with the return list, their gigantic "blisters" or anti-torpedo devices were exposed above the oily surface of the calm sea.
It was by no means a one-sided game. Projectiles were "straddling" the monitors, some falling hundreds of yards beyond their objective, and hurling columns of foam high into the air, as they ricochetted three or four times before finally plunging to the bed of the North Sea.
The whine of a high-velocity shell, as it passed a few feet above the wheel-house of M.-L. 4452, gave Branscombe warning that he, too, was under shell fire. A direct hit with one of those monsters would mean utter annihilation to the wooden hull of the M.-L. and to her crew as well. Nevertheless the little flotilla had to "carry on". Orders to patrol on a certain course had to be implicitly obeyed. The "small fry" under the White Ensign had to take similar and often greater risk than their huge and powerfully armed and protected sisters.
Up and down the limits of their patrol the little M.-L.'s carried on. No. 4453, always the unlucky one, was struck by a ricochetting shell. Fortunately the missile did not explode, nor did it detonate the depth charges stowed astern; but the impact played havoc with the ward-room, completely demolishing the roof and knocking two gaping holes in the raised sides. Well it was that her crew were at action stations, for not a man received as much as a scratch.
At the pre-arranged hour the monitors "packed up". Lowering the muzzles of their guns and bringing the weapons in a fore-and-aft position, they steamed slowly out of range under cover of a really colossal smoke-screen. For nearly twenty minutes the Huns liberally "watered" the spot where the bombarding force had been, until their observation balloons—for they were afraid to send their aeroplanes out—reported that once more the British ships had withdrawn. That evening Berlin would be cheered by the report that a prolonged and determined attack upon Zeebrugge by strong enemy forces had failed, with heavy losses inflicted upon the attackers.
But the task of the M.-L.'s was by no means accomplished. With the destroyers still holding on, in case a swarm of German torpedo-boats should issue from their lairs and pounce down upon the lightly-armed patrol-boats, No. 4452 and her consorts remained to watch for the returning seaplanes.
With their customary inclination to make "a show", the "spotting" aircraft had gone inland upon the termination of the bombardment in the hope that a Hun airman or two would try conclusions in aerial combat. Failing an encounter, they proceeded with great deliberation to drop bombs upon certain railway junctions, aerodromes, ammunition dumps, and other objects of military importance.
Over the placid sea patches of genuine sea-fog were stealing, as if Nature was bent upon showing man that, after all, his efforts at maritime camouflage were puny compared with hers. At intervals there was a clear view of the horizon; at others it was difficult to see a cable's length ahead.
From the Belgian shore the thunder of the heavy guns had ceased, but the air rumbled with the distant ceaseless cannonade on the Ypres salient. There was no mistaking the noise. For nearly four years the dwellers on the south-east coast of England and the seafarers in the vicinity of the Straits of Dover had heard it. By this time its monotonous rumble hardly raised a comment, save when at times it rose to a crescendo of hate. And yet that incessant rumble was the death-knell of thousands of the flower of the British Empire and its gallant Allies, and, no less, that of the Hunnish invaders.
Out of a broad patch of clammy fog glided M.-L. 4452 into a blaze of perfect sunshine. The glass windows of her wheel-house were open, since the moisture rendered them almost like frosted glass.
"Look!" exclaimed Branscombe. In his excitement he brought his hand down heavily upon the quartermaster's shoulder. "A Fritz; and we've got him cold!"
There was no mistake this time. Porpoises and floating boat-hook staves might be taken for U-boats, but the long, low-lying hull of the German submarine and its twin periscopes could not possibly be mistaken for anything but what they were, She was running on the surface at a moderate speed of ten knots, as if loath to "crack on" into the bewildering fog-bank that lay athwart her course.
"Stand by, aft!" shouted the Sub.
As if running for a challenge cup, the ex-bank clerk and the former public schoolboy tore aft. They knew their job: to release the deadly depth charges and to stand by the firing key, by means of which the electric circuit was completed and the explosive detonated. All out, the M.-L. made straight for her intended victim, her quick-firer giving the U-boat a preliminary show by way of encouragement. The shell missed the conning-tower by inches. Before the breech-block could be opened, the still-smoking cylinder ejected and another charge inserted, the U-boat dived so abruptly that for a few seconds her rudders and twin-screws were clear of the water.
"Starboard . . . at that!"
Branscombe, his eyes fixed upon the surface-swell of the now submerged pirate, waited until the M.-L. was crossing the path of the frantically-diving Hun.
"Let go aft!"
With a smother of foam, the metal canister toppled from its cradle into the milk-white wake of the swiftly-moving M.-L. The drum, on which the insulated wire was wound, began to revolve rapidly as fathom after fathom was paid out.
The Sub stepped from the wheel-house and raised his hand. Then, with a quick decisive motion, he brought it down to his side. At the signal, the key of the firing-battery was pressed home.
"Bon voyage, Fritz!" murmured Branscombe, as with an ear-splitting report a column of mingled smoke and foam rose quite two hundred feet into the air.
With her helm hard a-port the M.-L. circled rapidly to starboard, and, steadying, passed at slow speed through the patch of agitated water. One of the crew made ready to let go the mark-buoy to indicate the position of the sunken U-boat. He waited for the order, but Branscombe gave no word of command. Gripping the stanchion-wires, the Sub leant over the side and watched. Then his look of elation gave place to an expression of acute disappointment—like that of a needy man who picks up from the gutter what he imagined to be a "Bradbury", only to find that it is a wrapper of a packet of tobacco.
There was nothing—absolutely nothing—to indicate that the depth charge had carried out its pre-ordained mission. Not a vestige of oil floated on the surface of the sea. There were dead fish in hundreds, killed by the terrific explosion, but not a scrap of debris that by any stretch of the imagination could be attributed to the strafed U-boat.
Up pelted M.-L. 4453, closely followed by No. 4454. The skipper of the former raised a megaphone to his lips.
"Any luck?" he asked cheerfully.
"'Fraid not," shouted Guy, trying to hide his chagrin.
"Hard lines," was the sympathetic rejoinder.
"Yes, my luck's out this time," soliloquized Branscombe, as he gave orders for the former course to be resumed. "I wish to goodness I'd blown the beastly thing to bits."
But, had Guy known that his chum, Alec Seton, was on board the submarine, he might not have expressed himself thus. He would still have done his level best to strafe the U-boat, Seton notwithstanding. It would have been a case of duty before everything; but it would have been an unpleasant task.
It would be no exaggeration to state that Alec Seton "had the wind up badly" when the U-boat dived suddenly. He knew what it meant right enough; only on this occasion the positions were reversed. Instead of being the hunter he was the hunted, and, what was worse—worse from a strictly personal point—he was being strafed by some of his own friends, men who, from long practice, had been uncannily adept in sending German submarines on their last, long voyage.
Had he been on board a British submarine, and had been chased by a pack of Hun torpedo-craft, he would have borne the situation with comparative calm, knowing that it was part of the game, and that both sides could hit unpleasantly hard. But, a captive in an enemy craft, unable to lift a finger to help himself, Seton had good cause for being in a mild state of funk.
It seemed to him that the U-boat was diving almost horizontally, for he slid heavily against the for'ard bulkhead. Then, with a disconcerting roll, the boat regained an even keel. Men were shouting, hand-wheels and levers were being manipulated with undisciplined haste. There was no doubt about it: Fritz was having a sticky time, and taking his medicine badly.
Then came the muffled detonation of M.-L. 4452's depth charge. The U-boat, caught by the underwater undulations, rolled and pitched alarmingly. Gear was carried away, and clattered noisily across the steel platforms, the electric lights went out, water began to hiss in—fine but high-pressured jets through the buckled plates and started rivet-holes. In the darkness there was no telling whether the U-boat was plunging to the bed of the North Sea.
A sudden impulse prompted Seton to thrust his shoulder against the steel door. In calmer moments he might have reflected upon the needlessness of it. If he had to drown, he might just as well remain in solitude as spend his last moments in the company of a crew of panic-stricken Huns.
The door resisted the impact, but unaccountably the lock gave. Stumbling over the raised threshold, the Sub found himself brought up against a number of complicated valve wheels and tubes. There he hung on and waited.
Already some of the crew had produced electric torches. The pumps were set to work to keep the slight but none the less dangerous influx of water under control. Von Kloster, his eyes fixed upon the depth gauge, was bellowing out orders, while the unter-leutnant was feverishly attending to the wheel operating the horizontal rudders. Right aft, the sweating engineers were trying to coax the electrically-driven engines into action.
By degrees the Huns, realizing that they were not immediately going on a visit to Davy Jones, began to calm down. A petty officer, making his way aft, flashed his torch upon Alec. The latter, still clad in the dinghy canvas suit, was easily mistaken for one of the crew, for the petty officer, pointing for'ard, gave a curt order.
Seton had not the faintest notion of what the Hun said, but the gesture was unmistakable. Entering into the fun of the affair, the Sub, squeezing through a small oval-shaped aperture in one of the transverse bulkheads, found himself in the bow torpedo-room.
At that moment, the artificers having renewed the blown-out fuse-wires, the electric lamps were lighted. Alec was alone in the compartment. In front of him were the twin torpedo-tubes, which differed from the British ones in one important detail. Instead of the breech piece being secured by six butterfly nuts, the German method was to employ an intercepted thread cam-action, similar to the breech-block mechanism of a quick-firing gun. Above the tubes were six oiled steel torpedoes, each ready to be "launched home" into the tubes.
"By Jove! What an opportunity!" thought Alec, giving a cursory glance to reassure himself that he was alone. "A gorgeous chance to do the dirty on Fritz!"
Picking up a heavy adjustable spanner, Seton set to work quickly and deftly. To each of the rudders of the torpedoes he gave a slight and almost imperceptible twist. In the excitement of launching home and firing the deadly missiles, the Hun torpedo men would almost to a certainty overlook the slight but important bend in the delicately adjusted metal fins.
"Good enough!" declared Alec. He felt like a schoolboy engaged in ragging an unpopular fellow's study. It was time to make himself scarce before his presence was detected.
His luck was in. Without encountering anyone he regained his cell and closed the door.
"Now Fritz can use his tin-fish as often as he likes," he thought gleefully. "He's welcome to puzzle his brains to find out why the blessed things won't run true, for it's a dead cert. they won't."
It was a matter of three or four hours before the U-boat again rose to the surface. Her batteries were running low. If again obliged to submerge before regaining her base she would be compelled to rest helplessly on the bottom of the sea, since her underwater propulsion powers were almost nil.
When the sailor reappeared with Alec's unappetizing meal—black bread, acorn coffee, and sausage of doubtful origin—the German looked suspiciously at the door.
"You haf with the lock played tricks," he declared.
"Must have been the concussion," said Alec. "It was a nasty shock, wasn't it?"
The fellow scowled with sullen anger.
"Schweinhund Englander," he muttered. "I go tell der kapitan."
He put the food upon the floor and went to the door. Then, half turning, he inquired:
"Vot you give me, if I not tell der kapitan?"
Seton laughed outright. His sense of humour was tickled.
"Carry on, Fritz!" he replied. "It's your German temperament, I suppose. You can't help it. So put that in your pipe and smoke it."
The Hun looked puzzled.
"Put vot in mine pipe? Haf you any tobacco?" he asked almost pleadingly.
"'Fraid you can't understand, Fritz," rejoined Seton. "You'll get nothing more out of me, so hook it!"
The man went out still puzzling over the idiomatic expression that Alec had purposely employed. Yet he did not report the incident of the tampered lock to the kapitan. A little later an artificer came and secured the door, and once more Seton was a close prisoner.
With her pumps going continuously to keep under the steady inflow of water—for, in spite of "stoppers" and patches applied to the gaping plates, she leaked badly—the U-boat passed between the ends of the moles and entered Zeebrugge Harbour. Owing to injuries she had sustained, it was considered desirable to pass through the lock gates and take her up the Bruges Canal for repairs. Although the locality was not a healthy one, there was less risk of the U-boat being smashed by British guns or bombs than had she remained at Zeebrugge. Accordingly the returned pirate craft was temporarily berthed alongside the Mole in order to land certain members of her crew and also spare stores before proceeding.
Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert was the first to step ashore. There was a smile of satisfaction on his face: he made no attempt to conceal his joy at leaving the badly-strained U-boat, and he mentally vowed that, if the matter were left to him, it would be a long time before he went on a voyage again. He would be quite content to exercise his valuable submarine knowledge ashore, and let the U-boat commanders put his theories to the test.
Two-thirds of the crew, including Unter-leutnant Kaspar Diehardt, also landed. They showed little enthusiasm on their stolid faces, for they knew perfectly well that there was no respite for them. Owing to the shortage of skilled submariners, they would be promptly drafted to other U-boats, and be sent to sea again on their ruthless and inglorious task of attempting to wipe out of existence the British Mercantile Marine. Practically all the German submarine service suffered in the same way. Constantly employed, exposed to perils seen and unseen, ill-fed on very inferior food the men were already on the high-road to mutiny.
Guarded by a couple of armed men, Sub-lieutenant Alec Seton was taken ashore. Still clad in the loaned canvas suit and carrying his saturated uniform in a bundle under his arm, Seton set foot for the first time upon the now historic Zeebrugge Mole.
He made good use of his eyes during his progress. It was part of his training to do so. He had seen aerial photographs of the place, but these, useful though they were, conveyed but a slight idea of the formidable nature of the German defences.
The stone wall, rising full thirty feet above low water-mark, was of massive construction. It had been additionally protected by concrete works and thousands of sand-bags. There were emplacements for heavy guns by the dozen, and for quick-firers by the hundred, while machine-guns bristled everywhere. There were plenty of evidences of the activity of the British guns and aeroplanes, for the wall had been repaired in fifty different places. Some of the havoc played by bombs was of recent origin, men, both Belgian and German, being employed to make good the damage. Almost abreast of the berth where the returned U-boat was lying was a hole twenty feet in diameter, and perhaps a dozen feet deep, while the wall on the seaward side was bulging ominously under the strain.
At intervals, beneath the level of the outside parapet, several block-houses had been built on the Mole, machine-guns commanding the roadway on the breakwater. Evidently the Huns expected a landing, and with true Teutonic thoroughness were taking precautions accordingly.
Within the harbour were swarms of small craft of all types—ocean-going torpedo-boats, patrol-boats, submarines, lighters, suction-dredgers, captured merchantmen, and paddle-wheelers. All, more or less, showed signs of being badly mauled, for, almost daily, British sea-planes swarmed overhead and let the Huns know that they meant to make things hot for the pirates' nest.
At the present moment the guns were silent. Nevertheless, it was easy to see that Fritz was on thorns. Above the town floated four observation balloons; a Black Cross aeroplane flew discreetly along the sea-front, ready to hark back to its hangar on the first sign of the dreaded British sea-planes. From an elevated wooden tower on the extremity of the Mole, signalmen, brought specially from Kiel, swept the horizon with their telescopes. Anti-aircraft gunners were continually standing by, while in bomb-proof shelters artillerymen awaited telephonic orders to man their guns, should a 17-inch salvo from the monitors beyond the horizon announce that yet another strafe was beginning.
Against the base of the parapet were bundles of barbed wire, one end of which was securely fixed to stout ring-bolts in the granite wall. On the inner edge of the Mole were massive iron posts, each post being abreast a corresponding roll of wire. This was a part of the German defences, for at night the wire was stretched across the Mole roadway, forming twenty or more barriers, in which narrow gaps were left to enable men to move to and fro. These barbed-wire defences were augmented by live wires, the whole forming a truly formidable obstacle should any attempt be made to storm the Mole.
All this Seton was freely permitted to see. His captors intended that he should do so, otherwise they would have bandaged his eyes. It was part of von Brockdorff-Giespert's scheme. Confident in his belief that the prisoner would never leave Zeebrugge until the conclusion of a victorious German peace, the Count spared no pains to humiliate and intimidate his captive.
Presently the guards halted at a distance of less than eighty yards from the head of the Mole. Here was an abandoned big-gun emplacement. The seaward aperture had partly collapsed, leaving a gap of about four feet in width and two in height. This had been prevented from completely caving in by several thick steel bars fixed at four-inch intervals, the whole forming an impassable grille. The gun had been removed from the emplacement, leaving a space of twenty-five feet by twelve, and eight feet between the stone floor and the steel-girdered and concrete reinforced roof. The door was of steel, and furnished with three slits for rifle-fire. Within was a plank-bed with a straw mattress, a wooden stool, a shelf holding tin plates and cups, and a couple of blankets. This was Alec Seton's cell.
"Evidently the old brigand is keeping his word," thought the Sub as he was roughly bidden to enter and the door locked upon him. "He said he'd leave me to the attentions of our bombing 'planes and long-range guns. Ah, well! It's no use moaning about it. Make the best of a bad job, Alec, my boy, and keep a stiff upper lip. Many a man's been in a tighter hole than this before to-day and has lived to tell the tale. Never say die till you're dead."
And, with a series of similar trite maxims running through his head, Seton prepared to shake down in his new abode as a guest of the Imperial German Government.
"Jolly rotten luck thatBolerobusiness," remarked Lieutenant Farnborough, commanding M.-L. 4452.
The M.-L. lay alongside the oil-fuel jetty in Dover Harbour. A week had elapsed since the stunt off Zeebrugge. Farnborough was still far from fit. His sprained ankle was much better, but the injury to his back caused him considerable inconvenience and pain on movement. Yet, eager not to miss the opportunity of participating in the impending big operations at Zeebrugge and Ostend, he sturdily refused the more prudent course of reporting sick, and carried on as usual.
It was a calm, moonlit evening, following a hard blow. There was a fairly heavy sea running in the Channel, while in the Wick, or portion of Dover Harbour enclosed by the new Admiralty breakwater, a long swell was setting in, causing the destroyer and other vessels at the buoys to roll heavily. The "gush" was even communicated to the small basin at the north-eastern end of the harbour, where half a dozen M.-L.'s and two P.-boats lay in somewhat dangerous proximity to thousands of tons of highly-inflammable oil fuel.
No. 4452 was rolling slightly, her large coir fenders grunting and groaning as they ground against the massive timbers of the pier, the deck of which towered thirty feet above the little craft. Beyond and above, looming ghostly in the cold moonlight, were the rugged chalk cliffs crowning the venerable Dover Castle.
Sub-lieutenant Guy Branscombe, deep in a novel, merely shrugged his shoulders. His skipper's words had as yet failed to penetrate his understanding. Farnborough knew the Sub's peculiarity. In his spells of off-duty Branscombe was a regular book-worm. Farnborough, on the other hand, was prone to conversation, but he had an unsatisfactory victim in his sub, who was able to defend himself against inopportune interruption by entire absorption in the book of the moment.
Presently, after a lapse of a minute or more, Branscombe removed his pipe.
"What's that about theBolero?" he asked.
"Torpedoed," replied the Lieutenant.
"Lost off the Nord Hinder last Friday week."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Branscombe. "I know a fellow on that destroyer. Any casualties?"
"'Fraid so," answered Farnborough. "Night, rough sea, and all that sort of thing, you know. An officer and seventeen men missing—presumed drowned. Here you are, my boy!"
He handed Branscombe a copy of an Admiralty confidential circular giving details of the disaster. A month later the casualty list would be communicated to the Press together with a bald statement that "one of H.M. destroyers was torpedoed and sunk in the North Sea on the night of so and so". It would have to be left to one's imagination, and perhaps the simple narrative of a survivor, to picture the end of a gallant vessel, for "the Navy doesn't advertise", especially in war-time.
"Good Heavens!" ejaculated Branscombe; "I knew Seton awfully well. Old school chum of mine. His people lived close to my home. An' I came up in the train with him to Rosyth just before we commissioned; he envied me my stunt because of the extra excitement and risks," he added reminiscently. "Poor old Seton!"
The news hit Branscombe badly. In the senior service men get to know each other more than in the army. The camaraderie of the sea is a real thing. Friendships made afloat are generally of a lasting order, especially during a two years' commission, by the end of which time there is hardly a secret between "chummy" officers.
And into the midst of the big band of brothers stalked Death—far too frequently during the Great War. Men went singly, in dozens, and in hundreds, nobly doing their duty to King and Country. Some died in the knowledge that their passing was witnessed by their comrades; others went unheard and unseen, with none able to tell with any degree of accuracy of the manner of their going.
"Rough luck," murmured Farnborough sympathetically. "Did I ever come across him?"
"Not to my knowledge," replied the Sub, "and to my belief you never will."
"Strange things happen at sea," rejoined the Lieutenant. "There's nothing to prove that Seton's been done in. However, to change the subject, you might cast your eye on this. You'll have to commit the thing to memory."
The "thing" was a close-lined, typewritten document endorsed "Strictly Confidential". Branscombe gave a low whistle as he read the title. It was "Orders for Coastal Motor-Launches for the impending operations off Ostend and Zeebrugge".
For some considerable time past a series of rehearsals for the contemplated bottling up of the two Belgian ports had been taking place. One of the first steps was to pick and choose the men; the second was to train them. Volunteers for a certain mysterious and hazardous business were called for. Hundreds were required, thousands offered themselves. Bluejackets and stokers from the Grand Fleet, men from that Corps d'Elite, the Royal Marines, were accepted to form landing parties; destroyers from the Dover Patrol were merged into the scheme, together with several M.-L.'s; co-operation by the Royal Air Force was secured, pilots and observers from the old Royal Naval Air Service offering themselves in shoals.
The next step was the training. The operations were to be of a vast and complex nature, every division, sub-division, and individual working in harmony and unison with the rest. Should one link in the chain of preparation be faulty and not detected, should one division fail to do its allotted part, the whole enterprise might be in jeopardy.
To facilitate matters, relief plans of Zeebrugge and Ostend were prepared, every known detail being inserted, while daily corrections and additions were made, based upon aerial photographs and observers' reports.
In a remote and secluded spot in Kent, a full-size model of the portion of Zeebrugge Mole, alongside which it was proposed to place the vessels bearing the storming-parties, was constructed, so that the attackers would know exactly what was required of them. To be able to surmount a thirty-feet wall and to know the obstructional difficulties which lay on the other side was an asset; it certainly made things easier and gave a feeling of confidence to the attacking-party. But there was one element that could not be estimated exactly, but only guessed at and allowed for—the presence of German troops on the actual Mole.
To land seamen and marines on the Mole the old cruiserVindictivewas prepared. A sister ship to the ill-fatedGladiator, theVindictivehad long ceased to count as an effective ship of the Royal Navy. To all outward appearances her days were over. She was fit only for the shipbreaker's yard. Any further expenditure upon her was a waste of public money. These were a few of the many criticisms passed upon this and similar vessels, when it was proposed drastically to cut down the number of non-effective vessels on the navy list.
But in spite of her years—for she was old as far as steel vessels go—theVindictivewas fated not only to prove of important service but to cover herself with honour and glory, not once but twice, and to end her days in a glory of heroism that will for ever be written on the pages of the world's history.
Step by step the plans were worked out. Landing demolition-parties on the Mole was but a subsidiary operation. So was that of smashing the wooden bridge connecting the Mole with the mainland, and thus hampering the arrival of German reinforcements.
The climax of the operations was the bottling up of Zeebrugge and Ostend by means of old cruisers filled with concrete.
A few years ago the world was thrilled by the exploits of Lieutenant Hobson, of the U.S.A. Navy, when he attempted to bottle up Cevera's fleet in Santiago Harbour. Newspapers devoted columns of copy to chronicle and dilate upon the heroic deed; yet, without detracting from the merits of the achievement, the attempt was comparatively easy compared with the task before the British Navy at Zeebrugge and Ostend.
Hobson, with a small volunteer crew, took an old tramp steamer through the narrow entrance to Santiago Harbour. Within was a demoralized Spanish fleet. The forts were ill-armed and ill-served. Hobson carried out his instructions, but the actual result was a partial failure. The sinking of the block-ship did not prevent Cevera's fleet from issuing from the harbour and literally sacrificing itself to the guns of the powerful American fleet.
In the case of Ostend and Zeebrugge, the Huns were equipped with the most modern instruments of warfare. Everything that science could devise was at their command. The Belgian ports were formidable fortresses possessing natural and artificial defences of a stupendous character. No doubt the Boche, despite strenuous efforts on the part of the British to ensure secrecy, had a good inkling of what was being contemplated, and would take steps accordingly.
The vessels told off to attempt the bottling operations were obsolete third-class cruisers. They were to approach at night under their own steam, enshrouded in artificial fog, gain an entrance, if possible, and then sink themselves in the fairways of the two harbours. This act of maritimefelo-de-sewas to be accomplished by exploding charges in their holds. Officers and men had to be employed to navigate the vessels; engineer officers, E.R.A.'s, and stokers were necessary to keep up a head of steam; their task accomplished, they themselves had to be rescued, if possible.
It was here that the little M.-L.'s were again to prove their worth. On a given signal they were to dash into the harbour, range alongside the sinking block-ships, and dash out again with the rescued crews—provided the boats survived the maelstrom of fire that was sure to greet them.
"We're up against a tough proposition, my lad," remarked Farnborough, as he cut a chunk of navy plug and shredded it between his horny palms. Four years ago horny hands and plug tobacco were ill acquainted with Frank Farnborough, but a man's manners and customs undergo a considerable change in four years of war. Now he prided himself on the toughness of his palms and thoroughly enjoyed the tobacco.
"We are," assented Branscombe; then, after a pause, he added: "but I wouldn't miss it for anything."
"Nor I," added the Lieutenant. "If there's to be another blessed medical examination, I'll thug, poison, or bluff the whole of the medical branch of the navy. I'll go somehow, this idiotic sprain notwithstanding."
Branscombe made no remark. Much as he admired the grit and tenacity of his chief, he knew that at a time when every ounce of strength, both mental and bodily, were required, a man, handicapped by a stiff back, would not only be a trouble to himself but to the crew. Under the most favourable conditions the Lieutenant would not be fit in less than a week—and that with constant rest. He was too energetic to rest, and the stunt was timed to take place on the forthcoming Thursday.
The eventful day came at last. The sea was calm, the wind light. Gleefully, almost boisterously, the major portion of the storming-party boarded theVindictive. The rest were told off to two Mersey ferry-boats—theIrisandDaffodil. Monitors were making ready to proceed at slow speed; destroyers and M.-L.'s were fussing noisily around, awaiting the Admiral's order to carry on.
Farnborough, dissembling his hurt, was in the wheel-house, with Branscombe close at hand. Anxiously they watched the aneroid. For days it had been remarkably steady, but now, just after noon, it commenced to fall. Weather was a tremendous factor. With anything like a sea it would be practically impossible to lay the ships with the landing-parties alongside the Mole, while the chance of being able to set in position even a single gangway was out of the question.
There might be time before the weather broke, but the prospect was disquieting. Uneasily, men scanned sea and sky. Everyone hoped that the approaching storm would be deferred until the morrow.
Overhead, "Blimps" and sea-planes buzzed like wasps round a jam-jar. Ill betide the Hun who dared to make a cut-and-run raid upon Dover. Not a German airman must have an inkling of the assembly of the strange, ill-assorted armada in Dover Harbour.
With the dipping of the sun beneath the western horizon the flotilla put to sea. Meteorological reports from Zeebrugge and Ostend—obtained in some mysterious manner by the British Admiralty—reported slight fog and a faint ground-swell. That ground-swell presaged a storm—it was a race between armed might and Nature.
The M.-L.'s were at the tail of the flotilla. Their rôle would come last. It was imperative that they should be preserved intact until the critical moment. Their motors had to be kept absolutely in tune, for engine trouble meant disaster, not only to the crippled M.-L., but possibly to her consorts.
An hour and a half sped. Slowly, yet in perfect order, the strange assembly of warships lessened the distance between them and the invisible Belgian coast. Already the glare of the hostile search-lights could be discerned.
"Another three hours, my lad, and we'll be seeing life," declared Farnborough; "and death," he added in an undertone.
Almost as he spoke, a general wireless signal was sent from the Flagship. Decoded, the orders were brief and explicit: