"Operations abandoned owing to adverse weather conditions. Ships to return to Dover."
Apart from the actual fact that he was a prisoner, Alec Seton's captivity on the Mole at Zeebrugge was far from irksome. He had an almost uninterrupted view of the interior of the harbour, and seaward his range of vision in clear weather embraced a wide arc of the horizon. So confident were the Huns of the impossibility of Seton's escape that they allowed him to see almost everything that was going on, his gaolers actually pointing out various details, and gloating over the effects upon their prisoner.
It was only when a bombardment or a raid was expected that the seaward window, or rather aperture, was closed. This was effected by lowering a heavy slab of metal, after the fashion of an old-time gun-port. It was a precaution against signalling on the part of the captive. But without light or matches, or even a looking-glass as a heliograph, it was difficult to see how Seton could have accomplished the feat.
His food was poor and meagre. This was hardly the fault of the Huns, since the admirable blockade by the Allied fleets had already reduced Germany to the verge of starvation. Generally speaking, the demeanour of his guards was harsh and tyrannical. Misled by their officers, the rank and file of the Boche armies believed that Germany was already within measurable distance of emerging triumphant from the world-wide contest. This, to a great extent, explained the domineering manner of Seton's guards, although there were some who, guessing the truth, bore in mind possible consequences should the relative positions of captor and captive be reversed.
Life at Zeebrugge was not lacking in excitement. Every time a U-boat returned there were demonstrations; every time a U-boat set out she departed in almost sullen silence. The men loathed their task—not on account of the craven nature of their work, but by reason of the peril it entailed. Dozens of Hun submarines had left Zeebrugge never to return. Of the manner of their loss, none on that side of the North Sea knew. They could only conjecture. The secret lay with the British Navy, and the very mystery that enshrouded the vanished unterseebooten added to the terror of the crews of those boats that had hitherto escaped destruction.
Occasionally, and it was a rare occurrence, German sea-going torpedo-boats would leave the harbour at sunset. Before dawn they would be back with riddled funnels and shell-swept decks. Fritz had learned that it was decidedly unhealthy to try conclusions with the Dover Patrol.
And the raids: rarely a day and night passed but sea-planes and aeroplanes, sometimes singly but more often in flights, soared over the pirates' lair. Unruffled by the lurid and discordant greetings of the German "antis", the airmen would hover over their objective, and then, to make doubly sure of their target, dive down to within two hundred feet of the ground.
Cheering was the sight to the captive Sub-lieutenant, but the experience was none the less nerve-racking. More than once heavy bombs dropped within fifty feet of Seton's cell. The massive masonry of the Mole trembled like an aspen leaf; the air was laden with pungent vapours that caused Alec to gasp for breath. At the spot where the heavy missile dropped a hole twenty feet in diameter had been made.
Seton had hoped that during one of these aerial visitations a portion of the wall of his cell might have been demolished, and that, during the confusion that followed the explosion, he might have been able to escape. But second thoughts "knocked his theory into a cocked hat". The concussion that would break down the granite wall would certainly "do him in". Even if it did not, and his senses were not temporarily stunned, his chances of getting away unnoticed were of the remotest nature.
Regularly, and as often as the rules set down by the Huns permitted, Seton wrote home, but no reply came. Reluctantly he was forced to come to the conclusion that the Germans were fooling him—the letters were never sent. This was the case, for, as in similar instances, Alec's name was never sent in as a prisoner of war. He was one of those reported "missing" whose fate remained a mystery to their friends, until, on rare occasions, the missing man was able to effect his escape and to return home, to the consternation and surprise of his relatives, who had long thought of him as dead.
It was during one of the raids that Alec witnessed a daring stunt on the part of a young R.A.F. pilot. All that morning the Huns had been loading mines on board three new mine-laying submarines, the work being performed under a camouflaged canvas screen. Either a Belgian had managed to send the information over to the British Admiralty, or else aerial observers had noticed a difference in their photographic views of the harbour during the last few days. In any case, the solitary airman knew of the operations in progress.
In the grey dawn the British machine swooped down from a bank of clouds. With his engine cut out, he dived steeply. Too late the German anti-aircraft guns opened their hymn of hate. At two hundred and fifty feet the pilot released his cargo of bombs. A miss was almost an impossibility.
With an appalling, deafening roar, the three U-boats disappeared, together with nearly two hundred Germans engaged in loading their dangerous cargoes. For a radius of a hundred yards the havoc was terrific. Far beyond that area the damage wrought was severe.
With the roar of the explosion still dinning in his ears, Alec saw the gallant airman disappear in a cloud of smoke mingled with far-flung debris. Hurled like a dried leaf in an autumnal gale the British biplane was seen to be turning over and over, in spite of the engines running all out, and the efforts of the pilot to keep his 'bus under control. Momentarily, through rents in the blast-torn cloud, Seton watched the man whose work had been accomplished, and whose efforts were now directed to save himself—if he could.
"He's done himself in this time," exclaimed Alec.
The biplane was falling jerkily and giddily. She had got into a spinning nose-dive. Her tail-piece had been hit by a fragment of metal, and wisps of dark-brown canvas were streaming in the wind.
Although falling with great velocity, the biplane appeared to be dropping slowly. It seemed as if the pilot was bound to crash upon some houses, a short distance from the lock-gates of the Bruges Canal. To make matters worse, her petrol-tank caught fire, her downward course being marked by a trail of bright yellow fumes.
Then, falling headlong behind a tall building, the sea-plane was lost to sight.
"Hard luck!" murmured Seton sympathetically. "The fellow took no chances of missing; but, by Jove, it was certain death!"
Accustomed though he was to see men slain in the heat of battle, the catastrophe to the daring airman had a depressing effect upon the Sub. He rejoiced in the knowledge that the pilot's effort had not been in vain. He felt proud of the man who had given his life for his country; but, at the same time, the spectacle was a gruesome one.
Almost mechanically Seton stood at the open window. There was no doubt about the moral and material effect of the enormous damage. Swarms of German troops were being hurried up to clear away the debris and to repair the damage by the dock-side, for a large section of the wall was in danger of sliding bodily into the basin. Seamen were strenuously engaged in shifting damaged vessels from the locality, while Red Cross men, armed as usual in the German way with short swords and revolvers, were carrying away the maimed victims of the raid.
As Alec watched, he became aware of a babel of angry voices. A dispatch-boat had just tied up close to the head of the Mole, and the object of the hostile demonstration was in the act of landing.
Although not of an excitable nature, Seton could hardly refrain from giving a hearty British cheer. Actually he gave a whoop of encouragement, for, marched off in charge of a file of marines, was the airman who had played havoc with the submarine mine-layers.
Limping badly, and with a rent in his flying-helmet, the captured pilot marched with head erect and set lips, unmindful of the angry demeanour of the German spectators. Alec could imagine him muttering grimy:
"I've had a thundering good run for my money. Now try and get even with me, you blighters—if you can!"
biplane
biplane
[Illustration: THE BIPLANE HAD GOT INTO A SPINNING NOSE-DIVE]
[Illustration: THE BIPLANE HAD GOT INTO A SPINNING NOSE-DIVE]
It was a brief and passing pageant of British character: indomitable even in disaster. Then, surrounded by the fixed bayonets of his guards, the prisoner passed out of Seton's sight.
"The best thing I've seen since I've been in this rotten hole," soliloquized Alec. He spoke aloud. It was a habit he had deliberately acquired during his incarceration, in order that he could hear English spoken. "Jolly lad, the airman fellow; wasn't done in after all!"
Shortly afterwards the soldier told off to give Seton his meals came in with the Sub's meagre breakfast. As the Hun left, either by accident or design, a folded newspaper slipped from underneath his field-grey tunic.
Directly the door was closed and locked, Alec pounced upon the paper like a hungry dog at a bone. Half-expecting to find a journal printed in German, which would be practically useless to him, Seton was delighted to discover a soiled and crumpled edition of a Belgian newspaper, partly in French and partly in Flemish.
Flemish he knew nothing of, but he was a tolerable French scholar. As he read, his face grew long. Every scrap of news was nothing more nor less than a record of German triumphs. Paris was on the brink of capitulation; the British were thrown back upon a narrow strip of Picardy, bordering on the English Channel; the Ypres salient was flattened out; while the small American army had suffered a heavy reverse, and its surrender was but a matter of a few hours. The naval news recorded a succession of U-boat triumphs, the bombardment of several British seaports, and lastly, the failure of a determined attempt to blockade Zeebrugge.
"We know with absolute certainty," he read, "that a few nights ago strong English forces left Dover with the object of making an attack upon Zeebrugge. Large bodies of troops were embarked for the purpose. The fleet was met a few miles off Dover by a flotilla of U-boats, with the result that the English were compelled to retreat in disorder, with the loss of several of their large cruisers."
"Tosh!" exclaimed Alec. "This wretched rag is a 'plant'. Printed by the Huns in order to put the wind up the Belgian population. Fritz is a cunning swab, but it won't work here."
He tore the offending rag into small pieces, and threw the fragments through the barred window. It was slight—almost paltry—satisfaction, but it afforded him some gratification to see the lying paper scattered to the winds.
A key grated in the lock. Alec started like a school-boy detected in some slight indiscretion.
"The bounders have been spying upon me!" he thought; "I said it was a plant. Hang it all! why worry? Believe my nerves are going to blazes."
The next moment the door was thrown open, and Unter-leutnant Kaspar Diehardt appeared. Behind him were about half a dozen German seamen.
"Anoder schwein to you company keep, Englander!" he yapped.
The Unter-leutnant made a side pace. Then, propelled by several strong arms, the British pilot was bundled unceremoniously into the cell.
The "downed" airman was undoubtedly feeling the after effects of his crash. His forehead was swathed in a bloodstained linen-substitute bandage made of paper. He had been deprived of his leather flying-coat, triplex glasses, and fur-lined boots. Even his tunic had been taken from him. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, disclosing a pair of badly-scorched arms, while in his fiery descent his eyebrows had been singed, notwithstanding the protection afforded by his goggles.
He eyed Alec curiously. Although the latter greeted him with a smile and an outstretched hand, the pilot evinced no enthusiasm. There was a distinctly stand-offish manner about him that put a damper on the Sub's advances.
"By Jove! That was a fine stunt of yours," remarked Seton, as a preliminary to a friendly conversation.
"Think so?" queried the other with a slight drawl.
"Rather!"
"'Umph!"
The attempt fizzled out. Both men stood silent, contemplating each other like a couple of boxers about to engage in a bout.
"Can I do anything for you?" asked Seton.
"No, thanks."
Another interval of silence. Alec was wondering how to pass the time with such a mouldy messmate. He had rejoiced at the prospect of companionship, but his realizations in that respect were falling far short of his anticipations.
The day wore on. The new arrival spent most of his time in possession of the open window, while Alec resumed his vigil at the seaward aperture of the cell until the midday meal was brought in.
Suddenly the Sub felt a hand laid upon his shoulder, and the pilot's voice speaking peremptorily:
"Who and what are you?"
Seton told him his name and rank.
"You'll take your oath on it. Proper jonnick?"
"Proper jonnick," declared the somewhat mystified naval officer.
"Good enough!" continued the R.A.F. pilot with a laugh. "Had to be on my guard, don't you know? Thought you were a Boche agent."
"Thanks," said Alec. "And what gave you that impression, may I ask?"
"Natural caution, that's all," answered the pilot. "Fritz has a nasty habit of putting a Boche in with a fellow as a sort of room-mate, merely to try and pick his brains, don't you know? Don't say it isn't done, 'cause it is. Your opening remark about my little stunt rather strengthened my suspicion."
"And what made you alter your opinion?"
"A fairly long period of observation," replied the pilot. "What settled it was the way you were taking your soup or skilly. Beastly rotten stuff, but a Hun couldn't take it silently—you did."
"You're sure you're not mistaken?" asked Alec facetiously.
"Certain sure," rejoined the other. "My name? Oh, just Smith! When a fellow wants to be specially polite he addresses me as Allerton-Smith. But, by Jove, what a rotten crib to be shoved into! How long have you been here?"
Seton told him.
"Doesn't say much for my skill in egg-dropping," continued the pilot. "Our fellows have got hold of the idea that the Huns have a large petrol-store close to the head of the Mole. Consequently I've tried my level best to bomb the place, and apparently you into the bargain."
"Then I can assure you that you weren't far wide of the mark," said Alec. "Several times you rather put the wind up me, to say nothing of rudely disturbing my beauty sleep."
"Is that so—then I apologize," declared Smith. "All the same it is a bit gratifying to know that I do get near the mark sometimes."
"You did early this morning, at any rate." said Seton. "Those U-boats went up beautifully."
"And so did I," added the pilot. "Haven't quite got over the rotten sensation yet. Wonder my 'bus wasn't pulverized with solid stuff flying up. The air seemed stiff with bits of submarines. Funny thing happened—but perhaps I'm boring you?"
"Not at all," Alec hastened to assure him. "What happened?"
"Well, the old 'bus was whirling like a piece of straw. I was hanging over the side of the fuselage, when I saw a huge piece of metal rising, up to meet me—awfully weird sensation. Thought my number was up for a dead cert, when the chunk of stuff seemed to stop still, and then drop and disappear."
"How was that?" asked the Sub.
"Simply that my old 'bus was just a few feet above the highest point reached by the up-flung metal before gravity won the tug-of-war, don't you know. Then I came tumbling down, doing a sort ofsplitasseall over the place. Thought I was going to crash right on top of a house when the 'bus sort of pulled herself together, flattened out and then made a fairly decent sort of landing in the middle of the canal, which wasn't bad for a machine without a tail. Next thing I remember was being hauled on board a boat and taken off to the head of the Mole. Why the Boches wanted to do that puzzles me. It wasn't out of consideration for you, old bird."
"Evidently not," remarked Seton. "It's my belief, strengthened by a hint from von Brockdorff-Giespert, that we are here as a species of cock-shies for our own fellows. By the by, have you met von Brockdorff-Giespert?"
"The U-boat staff-bloke? Rather!" replied the pilot. "He tried to pump me, and, finding that was no go, tried to put the screw on. There was nothin' doin'."
The pilot paced up and down the limits of his prison-cell like a caged animal. Then suddenly wheeling, he asked:
"Ever thought of doing a bunk?"
"Many a time," replied the Sub. "That's as far as it went. Even supposing I got clear of this show, what's to be done? Not a chance of finding a boat, and putting to sea."
"Putting to sea!" repeated the airman. "That's all you sailors think about. The Huns know it too, and directly you were missed they'd send out torpedo-craft as far as they dared go to look for you. No, it's inland—that's the wheeze. It would put the Boches off the scent, and a fellow would stand a fighting chance of getting across into Holland."
"We're still behind iron bars—and massive ones at that," Seton reminded him.
"Quite so," admitted Smith. "There are other means; this was a gun-emplacement."
"So I believe."
"I know for a fact," declared the pilot. "The Huns constructed half a dozen for big guns to be directed seaward. The old R.N.A.S. knocked them about so badly that Fritz abandoned the idea. Now, does that suggest anything?"
"I'm afraid I don't follow you."
"The guns must have been served when they were in position."
"Admitted."
"And Fritz may make plenty of blunders, but he's no fool. Having placed the guns in position in well-concealed emplacements, he wouldn't send the ammunition along in the open. He'd connect the emplacements by passages to run the stuff up on tram-lines. You can take it from me, my festive, that if we dug down we'd break into a tunnel already provided for our edification."
"Sounds feasible," admitted Seton.
"Then when shall we start?" asked the pilot.
"Now," decided the Sub promptly.
Both men were warming to their work. Even if the desired result were not forthcoming, it was something to occupy their minds, and to ward off the deadly monotony.
"We'll have to go slow," cautioned Seton. "The floor looks pretty solid, and we've no tools."
"Haven't we, by Jove!" exclaimed Smith, producing a steel marline-spike of about nine inches in length. "I saw this beauty in the boat that brought me across the harbour, and, thinking it might come in useful, I annexed it. We'll start with this stone; it looks slightly wonky."
While one listened at the door for the sentry, the other tackled the cement. Working in turns, they succeeded at the end of three hours' work in prising the slab from its bed. Underneath was a quantity of rubble, bordered on one side by a stone slab.
"We're breaking into the old trap-hatch," declared the pilot. "We must clear this rubble and get rid of it. I vote we carry on till supper-time, and then stand by till midnight. It will be a slow business at first."
Handful by handful the rubble was removed, and thrown cautiously through the window on the seaward-side of the Mole. Before supper was brought in, the stone slab that formed the only barrier between the cell and the arch of the communication gallery was exposed.
In good time the upper slab was replaced and dust rubbed into the exposed joints, so that the gaoler would not notice anything was amiss.
"To-night's the night," remarked Smith, as the two prisoners partook of their frugal, unappetizing meal. "We'll have a jaunt ashore, if nothing else."
"What day is it?" asked Alec. "I've lost all count of time."
"Twenty-second of April," replied the pilot.
"Good enough!" exclaimed Seton joyfully. "St. George's Eve—a good omen."
As night fell the two officers prepared to renew their task. If Smith's surmise were correct, the actual business of breaking out of their cell seemed a fairly simple matter. Seton wondered why he had not thought of a similar plan before. Then he reflected that, had he done so, and had the work of getting clear of the Mole been successful, he would most certainly have attempted to make for the open sea. The idea of bluffing the Hun by going inland and thence across the Dutch frontier had never occurred to him.
Nevertheless the whole business was fraught with peril. The men were liable to be shot at sight by the sentries; if recaptured they might also be executed as spies, since they were not in uniform. Without doubt Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert would not be backward in taking any steps to make it decidedly unpleasant for them should they have the ill-luck to be recaptured.
Directly the rounds had made their usual inspection and had taken their departure, Alec and his R.A.F. comrade set to work. With only a marline-spike and two pairs of hands, the task of removing the cemented-in stone was a tedious and formidable one. They had to proceed cautiously and silently, lest the alert sentries detected the grating of cold steel against hard cement.
At intervals they desisted to listen. It was quite possible that the communication-tunnel might still be in use, in which case it was falling out of the frying-pan into the fire with a vengeance, and at the expense of a terrific amount of hard and purposeless toil.
"Wonder how goes the time," gasped Smith, pausing to straighten his aching back and to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. "Getting on for midnight, I should say."
"No fear; it's not much past eight o'clock," replied Alec. "I'll just see."
He went to the seaward aperture and gazed skywards. The night was dark and calm. The stars shone brilliantly, although obscured here and there by patches of mist. In the northern sky the Great Bear flamed in stellar splendour. By its position with relation to the Pole Star, Alec was able to confirm his surmise with a fair degree of accuracy.
"It's certainly not nine yet," he reported. "We've eight hours of darkness; ought to do something in that time. By Jove, this cement's hard! Wonder if it came from England?"
He took the marline-spike from his companion. It was wet and sticky. The pilot's hands, hitherto well kept and unused to hard manual labour, were almost raw. Alec's were not much better, while every muscle in his body and limbs was aching with the unwonted exertion.
Yet doggedly they continued their work, each man relieving the other at, roughly, a quarter of an hour's interval. The stone was beginning to show signs of working loose.
"Wonder if any of our fellows will be over to-night," remarked the airman. "We don't give Fritz much rest."
"It's been quieter to-day than ever since I've been here," said Alec. "You were the last fellow to come over."
"And stay here," added the other grimly. "Hope Fritz doesn't think that one man being brought down will put the others off. If so, he's vastly mistaken."
"I wish there would be a big raid or bombardment," declared the Sub. "We'd have to run the risk of being strafed; but, on the other hand, Fritz would be much too busy to worry about us. What's the weight of this stone: three-quarters of a hundredweight?"
"Quite," replied Smith promptly. He had been mentally calculating the cubic capacity and weight of that wedge-shaped piece of stone for hours past. "It's not the weight that matters so much. It's the awkward shape of the brute."
For the next ten minutes the two toilers were silent. Every jab with the now-blunted marline-spike was telling. The stone was almost ready for removal.
"Hist!" whispered Seton, holding up a warning hand. Although it was night, the stars enabled the men, accustomed to the sombre conditions, to see with comparative ease.
"What is it?" whispered Smith.
In reply Seton inserted the point of the spike into a crevice and pressed his ear lightly against the blunt end. His suspicions were not ill-founded. The metal, acting as a transmitter of sound, enabled him to detect footsteps in the corridor beneath.
"Rough luck," remarked the pilot in a low tone.
"We'll stand fast for a bit," decided Seton. "It may be that it's only a patrol or a party drawing stores. It's not far from midnight now."
As he spoke a gun barked a few yards off, quickly followed by another and another, until the masonry quivered and swayed with the terrific detonations.
Both men made their way to the window, which, unaccountably, their gaolers had not closed by means of the metal shutter.
Seaward avast bank of fog—whether natural or artificial the watchers had no means of telling—was punctured by rapid and vivid flashes of light. Star-shells and search-lights illumined the sky. Shells were screeching and bursting everywhere, until the sea and sky seemed blotted out with smoke and far-flung columns of spray.
Suddenly Seton gripped his companion's arm, causing him to wince with pain, and pointed to an indistinct grey mass looming through the fog. It was a vessel, blazing away with quick-firers and heading straight for the Mole.
"Thank God for that sight!" ejaculated Alec fervently. "This is the beginning of St. George's Day with a vengeance."
"It all depends upon the weather," remarked Lieutenant-Commander Farnborough. "This is absolutely the best we've had, and our third attempt—three for luck."
It was a quarter to five on the afternoon of Monday, the 22nd of April. The main force of the vessels operating against Zeebrugge and Ostend were on the point of starting from the concentration base, upon their hazardous enterprise.
The composition of the operating craft was of a truly diverse nature. Off the Goodwins came the oldVindictive, disguised almost out of knowledge. Her mainmast was down, the massive spar being fashioned into a huge "bumpkin" to fend her stem off the masonry of the Mole. On her foremast and above her conning-tower were box-like structures containing flame-projecting apparatus, Lewis-guns, and other devices conjured up by the Great War. Along her sides were large "brows" or gangways, together with a formidable array of hawsers and chains terminating in specially constructed grapnels.
Astern and in tow of her wereIrisandDaffodil, two ferry-steamers well known to the inhabitants of Liverpool and Birkenhead, and now carrying passengers of a very different sort from those to which they were accustomed. Following were the block-shipsThetis,Intrepid,Iphigenia,Sirius, andBrilliant, the paddle mine-sweeperLingfield, and five M.-L.'s.
The starboard column was composed ofWarwick, flying the flag of Vice-admiral Keyes,Phoebe,North Star,Trident, andMansfield, the two latter towing two obsolete submarines of the "C" class. In the port column were destroyers, every vessel towing one or more coastal motor-boats, while between the columns were about fifty or sixty M.-L.'s.
M.-L. No. 4452 was told off to operate with the artificial fog-producing craft. It was to be by no means an uninteresting task, for, not only was it fraught with danger, but it required great skill and sound judgment on the part of the small craft concerned to liberate the thick pall of smoke at the opportune moment and exactly in the required spot.
Both Farnborough and Branscombe had urgently requested permission to be allowed to take their M.-L. into the harbour to rescue the crews of the block-ships; but since practically every M.-L. skipper had made a similar submission it was obvious that there were to be many disappointed aspirants to the honour—amongst them the officer commanding M.-L. 4452.
Cautiously the strange medley of naval vessels proceeded. Several hours of daylight yet remained—a period during which the flotilla was in more danger of submarine attack than during the night. There was also the risk of running over an enemy mine-field, for the Huns, anticipating naval operations against their Belgian fortresses, had been known to make lavish use of their mine-laying submarines. Another factor, which subsequently proved to be a very vital one, was the position of the buoys. These had been carefully observed by British air-craft, and, as far as could be judged, were all in their positions on the morning of the 22nd.
Orders had been given to dispense with wireless signals, while the use of flags as a means of communication was reduced to a minimum. But one signal and its reply were fated to be recorded in the pages of history.
From the Admiral's ship came the stirring message, a clarion call to which Englishmen had oft-times rallied before: "St. George for England".
Promptly came the forcible and appropriate rejoinder, "And may we give the Dragon's Tail a jolly good twist".
Guarded by destroyers and M.-L.'s theVindictiveand the block-ships proceeded, arriving at a certain rendezvous just as darkness was setting in. Here the principal actors separated, theSiriusandBrilliantmaking towards Ostend, while the others held on for Zeebrugge.
"How do you feel, old son?" inquired Lieutenant-Commander Farnborough of his Sub-lieutenant.
"Can hardly describe it," replied Branscombe. "Almost believe I've got cold feet, but I wouldn't be out of the show for anything."
Branscombe's description of his condition was a figure of speech. Actually his throat was hot, his tongue was dry, and he could hardly speak a word in reply to his commander. His heart was thumping heavily, while his pulse was throbbing at a rate that would have made a medical man, unacquainted with the circumstances, look astonished. It was a series of sensations akin to those experienced during the last five minutes before "Going over the Top".
A few minutes after scheduled time the monitors began their preliminary "hate", and almost immediately the German guns replied. It was a preliminary operation only, with a view to distracting the attention of the Huns from theVindictiveand the block-ships.
Both Farnborough and his Sub were consulting their wristlet watches almost every fifteen seconds. They wore their watches outside their thick gloves, for officers and men had to be as fully protected as possible against the highly-injurious effects of mustard gas. Together with shrapnel helmets and gas-masks the "get-up" was as unlike that of the Royal Navy as could be readily imagined.
At 11.40 to the minute—for everything depended upon the operations being carried out "according to plan"—the coastal motor-boats dashed in towards the low, flat, sandy shore, and proceeded to lay floats on which the fog-producing plant was lashed. As the dense black pall of vapour rose, Fritz opened a heavy fire. Anxious foreboding was telling upon him. His nerves were very much on edge that night.
Several of the floats were observed to be sunk, while, as ill-luck would have it, the light wind, hitherto favourable to the enterprise, changed in direction. Nevertheless, the dauntless little craft went about their work, nothing but their small size and handiness saving them from annihilation by the terrifically hot fire maintained by the enemy.
Sixteen minutes later theVindictive, emerging from the smoke-screen, sighted the head of the Mole, bearing one and a half cables on the port-bow. Gathering increased way until her engines were working at full speed, she steered straight for her appointed berthing-place, her guns literally belching fire as she forged through the shell-torn water. It was a gallant sight. Marvellous it was that the old cruiser was not sent to the bottom, so violent was the cannonade directed towards her.
St. George's Day, 1918, was but a minute old when, with the shock practically absorbed by her massive fenders, theVindictivestruck the Mole a glancing blow. Although her decks were shambles, she was now fairly protected from the German fire by the masonry of the lofty breakwater, but by this time her funnels, upper-works, and flame-projecting huts were riddled.
In the midst of a truly deafening din men dashed from cover to hurl the grapnels across the parapet of the Mole. At first the attempt was a failure, for the set of the tide and the scend of the sea caused theVindictivefirst to grind heavily and then swing slightly away from the wall. To add to the difficulty of the storming-party most of the "brows" had been shattered by shell-fire. Two only could be run out, and along them literally lurched the seamen and marines. Swept by machine-gun fire the passage of the storming-party along those frail gangways was a heroic one. In cold blood a man would have been pardoned for hesitating to essay the task. Should any of the men slip and fall—and several of them did—a hideous death awaited them between the grinding hull of the ship and the seaweed-covered masonry of the Mole.
Encumbered though they were with Lewis-guns, bombs, ammunition, and explosive charges, and carrying rifles and bayonets, the storming-party continued, one after another, to gain the top of the parapet, whence a drop of fully fifteen feet had to be risked before they could reach the fairly broad but much obstructed roadway on the inner side of the breakwater.
Meanwhile, not only had theVindictiveput alongside the Mole farther from the mole-head than had been intended, but she obstinately refused to range alongside. It was the littleDaffodilthat saved the situation. Bows on, and with her engines continuously going ahead, the Liverpool ferry-boat forced her big consort up against the Mole, and thus enabled the rest of the storming- and demolition-party to land.
A few yards ahead of the now securedVindictivecame theIris. In the heavy ground-swell she bumped heavily against the hard granite. Most of her scaling-ladders were smashed to matchwood, and those that remained were almost too insecure to attempt to use. Yet, in spite of hostile fire and the hazardous means of ascent, men were not wanting to risk and give their lives for King and Country.
One of the first to ascend was Lieutenant Claude Hawkings. For a brief instant he stood upon the parapet, silhouetted against the glare of the star-shells and the flashes of the guns, striving to engage one of the large grapnels flung from the deck of theIris. The next instance he was shot and fell upon the stonework.
Almost simultaneously Lieutenant-Commander G. N. Bradford worked his way to the top of a derrick used for lifting out a large mole-anchor. From this precarious perch he leapt down, alighting on all fours on the parapet. Without an instant's delay he was on his feet again and tugging furiously at the anchor to secure it. This he did, and in the moment of success he, too, was shot, his body falling into the water betwixt the ship and the Mole.
Unfortunately the mole-anchors refused to obtain a grip. Grinding and bumping, theIriswas unable to land her men. Reluctantly it was realized that any further attempt at that spot would mean a needless loss of life, so the cable was slipped and the little ferry-boat ran alongside theVindictive, where she was able to land the survivors of her seamen and Royal Marines across the deck of the cruiser.
By this time the storming- and demolition-parties were hard at it, clearing the head of the Mole and making a mess of German personnel and material generally. With Lewis-guns and bombs they worked their way along, destroying wireless stations, clearing out machine-gun nests, and hurling deadly explosive missiles upon the decks of the German torpedo-craft lying alongside.
It was by no means a one-sided affair. Caught like rats in a trap the Huns on the seaward end of the Mole put up a plucky and stubborn fight, doubtless relying upon the chance of receiving reinforcements from the shore.
The expected reinforcements never arrived. To enable German troops to gain the stone portion of the Mole they must needs cross an iron pier connecting the stonework with the mainland. Bodies of troops were actually on the way, when it was noticed that a submarine was approaching at a distance of a mile and a half. Lit up by the glare of the star-shells the coming submarine presented a tempting target. Hun 4-inch guns promptly opened fire upon her, but unswervingly the submarine held on.
This puzzled Fritz completely. Then it occurred to him that the British submarine was out of her course and that, if she carried on, she would run aground and become an easy capture. So orders were given to cease fire and to train two search-lights upon the doomed craft in order to baffle still further her navigating officer.
But C 3 was not out of her course, nor was her lieutenant in command at all hazy as to his position. The submarine was laden with explosives in order to demolish the only means of communication between the Mole and the shore. It was deemed a task that entailed the sacrifice of C 3's officers and men; yet, in the hope that a slight chance of escape offered, the vessel was provided with a motor dinghy. From the conning-tower the officers could see the viaduct distinctly, as it stood out against the glare. On it were hundreds of German troops, many dancing and waving their arms with delight at the thought of making an easy capture of the bewildered Englishmen.
Now, at a distance of less than a hundred yards, success looked like becoming realization. Altering helm slightly C 3 charged the viaduct at full speed, hitting it fairly at right angles. The blunt nose of the submarine glinted over a horizontal girder, lifting the hull quite two feet out of the water. Still carrying way, C 3 lurched forward until the base of her conning-tower brought up against the massive iron braces of the pier. There she remained hard and fast, save for the quivering movement imparted by the ground-swell.
Overhead were hundreds of Huns still delirious with glee at their easy victory; underneath, a handful of cool and resolute Britons determined to do the job thoroughly and efficiently.
C 3 had been fitted with gyro steering-gear, a device similar to that of the Whitehead torpedo, to enable her to steer automatically for her goal after her crew had abandoned her. But, taking no risks on that score, Lieutenant Sandford, the officer in command, had resorted to the ordinary methods of steering until the submarine was securely wedged under the viaduct.
Before the actual impact C 3's crew mustered on deck. In that exposed position they remained within full view of the enemy; yet, confident that the submarine's crew would speedily be made prisoners, the Germans forbore to fire.
The order was then given to ignite the fuses. Having made sure that the desired explosion would take place, Lieutenant Sandford gave the word for all hands to embark on the skiff.
Then the disconcerting discovery was made that the skiff's propeller had received damage. The little motor was useless. All that could be done was to make use of oars in a race against time. It was a hard tussle, with the tide boring against the deeply-laden boat. Unless a certain distance was covered before the explosion took place the men would share the fate in store for the Huns.
To add to the difficulties the Germans, on finding that the dinghy was leaving the submarine, opened a furious fire with pom-poms, machine-guns, and rifles. It was indeed a mystery how the skiff survived the ordeal. Holed many times, her officer in command twice wounded, and several of her crew hit, she struggled manfully against the current, her pumps going all the time to keep the inrush of water under control.
Yard by yard the little boat drew away from the abandoned C 3. Fritz, wild with rage at being baulked of the capture of the crew, redoubled his fire, more men and more machine-guns being brought up to harass the elusive skiff-dinghy.
By dint of strenuous exertions the boat gained a distance of about two hundred yards through the bullet-flecked water when, with a tremendous report, the explosive cargo of C 3 detonated.
In an instant the viaduct went up in a cloud of flame-torn smoke, taking with it men, guns, and search-lights. The air was full of falling debris, a great quantity dropping into the water all around the skiff.
There was not the slightest doubt that C 3's work was accomplished, while the chances of her crew surviving their hazardous task rose with a bound.
In the lull that followed, the men made good use of their oars, and presently, to their relief, the picquet-boat told off to attempt their rescue was sighted. Quickly the heroic men were taken off and transferred to comparative safety on board H.M.T.B.D.Phoebe. Meanwhile the demolition-parties on the Mole were hard at work with Fritz's little contraptions, while the block-ships were preparing for theirmagnum opuswithin the gates of the Huns' stronghold.
"Hurrah! They've laid the ship slap alongside the Mole," reported Seton from his post of observation at the seaward aperture.
"Sure," agreed Smith. "And it's about time we broke bounds and had a chip in."
Both men were shouting at the top of their voices, for the noise without was deafening. The roar of the heavy guns punctuated by the crash of the quick-firers, the rattle of machine-guns, the hiss of escaping steam, the grinding of theVindictive'shull against the masonry, the cheers and shouts of the storming-parties, and the cries and groans of the wounded, all united in an indescribable babel of discord.
Owing to the relative position of the ship and the prisoners' observation aperture, only a few feet of theVindictive'sstern could be seen. There was nothing to indicate whether the assault had been successful. But on the Mole side there were soon evidences that the British seamen and marines had obtained a footing, and had more than made good their position.
Grotesquely garbed men were dashing forward in sections, hurling bombs and using Lewis-guns like fiends possessed. Here and there a cornered Hun would put up a fight until laid low by bullet or cutlass thrust. Slowly but surely the British invaders of the Mole were working their way along.
"No place for us here," yelled Seton. "Our fellows are bombing every hole they see. It's useless to attempt to tell them who we are, and I don't fancy being blown to atoms by our own side. We'll have to take to the tunnel."
"Right-o!" agreed the pilot.
Together they struggled desperately with the refractory stone, until by dint of great effort they succeeded in raising it on to the floor of the cell. It was then a matter of comparative ease to enlarge the hole sufficiently to allow them to effect their escape.
They were not a moment too soon. With the sounds of the conflict immediately outside their cell, the two men dropped through the gaping hole, alighting on the stone floor of the corridor eight or nine feet below.
The tunnel was thick with suffocating fumes. Until the smoke cleared any attempt at escape in the rear of the storming- and demolition-parties was out of the question. All that could be done was to work their way along to the seaward end of the corridor, and there await developments.
"Wish I had a gas-mask," exclaimed Alec chokingly.
"Same here," agreed the pilot. "Here," he added, pointing to a pile of what appeared to be short sticks, "take a few, they'll come in handy."
The acquired articles were bombs of German manufacture, and had evidently been placed there as a reserve stock.
"Know how they work?" inquired Smith.
Alec shook his head. He understood the mechanism of the Mills' grenade, but he had never before had an opportunity of handling a German bomb.
"Simply pass this thing round your wrist and chuck the thing as hard as you can. The cord is tied to the safety-pin, and the jerk releases the pin. Quite easy."
"And easy to blow yourself up," added Seton. "All right, carry on! We'll do our best with the things."
Proceeding cautiously, for they could hear Huns talking in the tunnel, the two men worked their way along the tunnel for nearly a hundred yards. Then they paused abruptly and flattened themselves against the wall.
A few feet farther along, the corridor terminated in a flight of steps, seven in number, leading upwards to a fairly spacious casemate. From where Alec and his comrade stood the legs of several Germans could be seen, the rest of their bodies being hidden by the curvature of the roof of the tunnel. The men were formed up round a quick-firing gun of 15 centimetres, or approximately 4.1 inches—a weapon of great hitting power and rapidity of action.
Evidently they were waiting to train the weapon upon some moving objective that had not yet entered the arc of fire.
The two officers glanced at each other. Their teeth gleamed in the dull light, as they exchanged grins of delight. They were no longer prisoners of the tyrannical Hun, but strong men armed. Providence had delivered the enemy into their hands, but it would not be a one-sided contest. The surprise of the attack would compensate for the inequality of numbers, and there were the survivors and possibly crews of guns in another casemate to be reckoned with.
Simultaneously both officers took a step forward, and launched their deadly missiles. The two reports sounded as one, outvoicing in the confined space the din of the conflict without. Amid the rattle of metallic splinters could be heard the thud of bodies falling and the startled squeals of wounded men who find themselves unexpectedly hit.
The rapid crack of an automatic pistol and the splaying of bullets against the stonework gave Seton and his companion warning that their work had not been thorough. Through the pall of smoke a Hun—perhaps more than one—was "letting rip".
Four bombs in quick succession gave the unseen foe his quietus. Silence reigned in the casemate. The roar of battle without was increasing in violence.