face
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[Illustration: THE PILOT THREW A BOMB FULL IN THE FACE OF A PRUSSIAN UNTER-LEUTNANT]
[Illustration: THE PILOT THREW A BOMB FULL IN THE FACE OF A PRUSSIAN UNTER-LEUTNANT]
Keeping a sharp look-out for the approach of Hun reliefs along the corridor, the two officers waited until the pungent fumes had almost cleared. Then, into the suffocating atmosphere they penetrated. Ascending the short flight of steps they gained the gun emplacement. The weapon, trained to the extreme left, was pointing slightly to the right of the lighthouse, at the extreme end of the Mole extension. Around it lay the bodies of the crew.
A glance through the sighting-slit in the gun-shield gave Alec a clue. Seaward the water was swept by search-lights, the giant beams darting between the sullenly rolling clouds of artificial fog. Quick-firing guns were blazing away like fury. Apparently a torpedo-craft attack on the harbour was about to take place.
"Make a job of it while we are about it," shouted Smith, pointing to a passage on their right. "Another quick-firer in there!"
Through the passage dashed the impromptu bombers, encouraged by their previous victory. Less than ten yards away was another 15-centimetre gun. Apparently its crew were either in ignorance of the knocking-out of the sister-gun, or else they attributed the noise of the bombs to the explosion of a shell fired from seaward.
In any case the surprise was complete. Two bombs were sufficient to silence the weapon.
Beyond was yet a third gun. In this instance the task was by no means so easy, for running along the communication passage came a stalwart naval gunner—one of a picked crew from the German High Seas Fleet.
It was the two officers' canvas suits—garments so grudgingly accepted and yet so opportune—that saved them from instant detection. The Hun, imagining them to be two members of a working-party, bellowed an incoherent order. In a trice he was collared in approved Rugby fashion, while a heavy blow behind the ear reduced him to a state of insensibility.
The scuffle was witnessed by two or three Germans engaged in bringing up ammunition. Their shouts of alarm roused the rest of the gun's crew.
Before Seton and his companion, having completed their task of strafing the Hun gunner, could hurl their bombs, a fusillade of pistol shots rang out. A bullet grazed Smith's cheek; another ploughed a furrow through Seton's hair.
The pilot threw a bomb full in the face of a Prussian unter-leutnant. The missile failed to explode, although it floored the German. Another Boche picked up the bomb and hurled it back. Ricochetting against the wall it hurtled past Seton's head and clattered on the floor of the tunnel ten feet in the rear of the British officers.
There was no time to devote to that. If the sinister missile exploded it meant an end to the contest, but fortunately it was what was known as a "dud".
Almost immediately Alec threw a grenade. It exploded within a couple of seconds of leaving the Sub's hand. When the smoke cleared away, the gun was deserted, save by the dead and dying. Three Huns who had escaped the death-dealing missile had promptly leapt through the embrasure into the sea.
"By Jove, we've put a battery out of action," declared Smith breathlessly. "What luck!"
"Luck, indeed," agreed Alec, pointing to the unexploded bomb. "If that beauty had gone up—but it didn't. What's doing now?"
The two men made their way to the embrasure. It was just possible to squeeze between the steel shield and the granite face of the gun emplacement.
Without, the scene beggared description. Although the 15-centimetre guns were silent, hundreds of smaller quick-firers and machine-guns were letting rip at what was certainly short range. Search-lights were swinging to and fro across the harbour, star-shells bursting high aloft turned night into day.
From seaward shells were coming in showers knocking splinters from the Mole extension on which a Hun battery of six 88-millimetre guns was rapidly being put out of action.
To the right of the embrasure at which the two British officers had taken up their post of observation could be discerned a string of canal barges, moored end to end with anti-torpedo nets between, while the line of obstruction terminated in a number of net defence buoys, their position hardly visible even in the strong artificial light.
The while, sounds of conflict on the Mole were distinctly audible, although from where Seton and his companion stood it was impossible to see what was taking place. The crash of bombs and the rattle of machine-guns mingled with British cheers and German guttural shouts. Whatever was happening it was apparent that the landing-parties were making things particularly hot for Fritz on Zeebrugge Mole.
Even as the two men looked the object of the Huns' shortened fire became visible, for, steaming at full speed towards the Mole-head, were the first of the British block-shipsThetis,Intrepid, andIphigenia.
Once more it was a case of the onlookers seeing most of the game. At the risk of being knocked out by a British shell—for the position of the now silent 15-centimetre guns was known to the attacking forces, although the actual bore of the guns was supposed to be but 10.5 centimetres—Seton and his companion stood enthralled at the spectacle of supreme valour.
Literally into the jaws of Death came theThetis, majestically, unswerving, and as steadily as if about to pick up moorings at Spithead. With her quick-firers replying to the storm of German shrapnel she held on, rounded the Mole-head, and passed within a cable's length of the battery in which Seton and Smith stood.
Then, with a slight alteration of helm she steered straight for the barge farthest from the Mole. Down went the barge; on swept theThetis. Between the net defence she went, tearing buoys and nets from their anchors and sinkers. Hampered by these obstructions, for apparently the nets fouled her propellers, theThetisslowed down and grounded diagonally across the entrance to the canal and about a hundred yards from the pier-heads.
Even as she settled, for she had been purposely sunk in the fairway, theIntrepidcame into view. In her case she was late in rounding the Mole-head, a circumstance that was subsequently explained by the fact that her surplus watch of stokers, determined not to miss the scrap, had refused to be taken off by the M.-L.'s. Consequently theIntrepidwent into Zeebrugge Harbour with a complement of 87 officers and men instead of 54, and that meant that if possible 33 extra men had to be rescued by the little M.-L.'s.
Steering for the gap in the net defences made by theThetisand judging her position by the latter vessel, hard aground, the second participator in the marine Balaclava entered the Harbour.
Although receiving a heavy gruelling theIntrepid, worthy of her name, held resolutely to her course, until she grounded heavily in the centre of the entrance to the canal. Her mission accomplished she was sunk by orders of her gallant skipper, and thus thousands of tons of hard cement were firmly embedded in the mud and sandy bottom of the canal. And now, to make doubly sure of the bottling-up process, theIphigeniaapproached under a heavy fire. She, too, was carrying far more than her required complement of men, the supernumeraries, resolutely determined not to be out of the grim business, having dodged the motor-launches told off to remove them before the ship made for the harbour.
From their point of observation Seton and Smith watched the majestically-movingIphigenia. Frequently hidden by driving clouds of artificial fog, pounded by guns of all calibres, with her upper-works shot through and through, the third block-ship held on.
Suddenly two shells hit the ship on the starboard side. Following the blast and smoke of the exploding missiles a dense cloud of steam poured from her vitals, enveloping the whole of the forepart in blinding vapour.
"Steam-pipe severed," decided Alec. "Now, what will she do? She's missing the entrance, by Jove!"
Fortunately, at that juncture the smoke cleared sufficiently to allow the temporarily blinded navigation-party to realize their mistake. With her partly-disabled engines going at full speed astern, theIphigeniadrove between a large dredger and a lighter, sinking the latter like a stone. Then, driving the rammed barge ahead with her only starboard engine working, she literally pushed the huge, unwieldy craft into the canal.
It was tricky navigation, difficult even in times of peace, to manoeuvre a craft like theIphigeniain a narrow waterway. Hampered by smoke, pounded at by guns, and blinded by search-lights and star-shells, her commander's task appeared to be super-human. Yet marvels were accomplished that night, andIphigenia'shandling was one of them. Ably manoeuvred, she narrowly missed colliding with the sunkenIntrepid, then coolly and deliberately she was grounded on the east side of the canal, thus making doubly sure that the hornets' nest was sealed.
And now, their work completed, the storming- and demolition-parties from theVindictive,Iris, andDaffodilwere being withdrawn.
"Time for us to be making tracks, old man," shouted Alec to his chum. "Our fellows are clearing off the Mole. It's our chance to slip off with them, without being plugged by an over-excitable marine or blown sky high by a British bomb."
"Yes, the show's over," rejoined the R.A.F. officer, as the pair began to retrace their footsteps. "Jolly fine stunt—eh, what?"
Past the silent gun emplacements with the wiped-out crews, the two officers hastened, and descending the short flight of steps, gained the communication passage that ran practically the whole length of the Mole.
For quite two hundred yards they fought their way through pungent vapours, hoping to find an exit and thus mingle with the storming-party as the men withdrew to their ships.
Suddenly they found themselves confronted by a mass of blackened rubble, the stones still warm to the touch. A hasty examination showed that a heavy charge of gun-cotton had blown in the tunnel, completely cutting off the escape of Alec and his companion.
"Properly dished!" exclaimed Smith disgustedly. "We're trapped!"
"Tails up!" exhorted his companion. "I know of a way. Game for a swim?"
"Right-o!" replied the R.A.F. officer. "Lead on, old son! It's the night of nights, isn't it?"
"Lucky blighters!" ejaculated Lieutenant Farnborough, referring enviously to the M.-L.'s told off to rescue the crews of the block-ships. "They're on the move, by Jove!"
"Wish we were on the same game," added Branscombe covetously. "I suppose we can't log an imaginary signal ordering us in support?"
"Brilliant idea of yours, old man," replied Farnborough. "Half a mind to try the wheeze."
M.-L. 4452, having for the time being completed her smoke-screen task, was "lying off", an interested spectator of the dash of the block-ships into Zeebrugge Harbour.
Other M.-L.'s had been detailed to cover the retirement of the oldVindictiveand the two ex-ferry boats—if they were fortunate enough to draw away from the inferno of fire and shot, shell and poison gas; but Farnborough's command, together with six other M.-L.'s, was to stand by as a reserve rescue vessel.
TheThetisand her consorts had vanished into the smoke-laden harbour. After them dashed the small motor craft detailed for the rescue of the crews of the block-ships.
"It's like sending half a dozen wasps to tickle the tongue of a bad-tempered lion," remarked Branscombe. "Lucky bounders!"
"Harry Tate's Navy is well up to-night," added Farnborough grimly. "I'd like to see some of those funny bounders who tried to pull our legs taking on this business. Guess they'd have the wind up. Hello, here's one of 'em!"
Zigzagging through the smoke, dodging shells that landed exactly on the spot where she had been two or three seconds previously, came a M.-L., her decks packed with human beings. The destroyers pushed forward to screen her from the wrathful Huns. Listing badly and well down by the stern, the brave little craft had dared, and had come back, scarred with honourable wounds, from the gates of hell.
Then came another, also bearing a heavy deck cargo of rescued men. As she passed within a hundred yards of M.-L. 4452, the latter gave her a rousing, cheer.
A comparatively long interval elapsed. No more M.-L.'s came into view. A rocket, soaring aloft above the smoke, announced that theVindictivewas recalling her storming- and demolition-parties. It was a way of announcing that all that could be done was done, and nothing else was left but to withdraw from the action.
"There's our number!" exclaimed Farnborough, as a light blinked through the murk.
It was a stretch of imagination on the part of the Lieutenant in command of M.-L. 4452. Whether he saw the signal, or only imagined that he did, made little difference. There was an opportunity of making a dash into the harbour, and Farnborough jumped at it.
The engine-room telegraph-bell clanged loudly as the Lieutenant ordered "Full speed ahead both engines". M.-L. 4452, hitherto waltzing to and fro in a seemingly erratic manner, quivered under the pulsations of the powerful motors. Zigzagging, she leapt, forward towards the partly demolished lighthouse at the Mole-head.
Standing just behind his superior officer, Branscombe began to taste the sensation of going into action. At first the experience was far from pleasant, especially when the beam of a powerful search-light swung round and steadied itself full upon the swiftly moving M.-L.
"Our number's up," thought Branscombe, for he felt absolutely certain that a salvo of hostile shells would follow within a few seconds. Fritz would be sure to let fly with a veritable tornado of "hate" upon the brilliantly-lighted target.
Unaccountably Branscombe's surmise was not realized. Beyond a few chance missiles that hurtled wide of the mark not a shot came from the Mole-head batteries. Out of the dazzling light into comparative darkness dashed the M.-L., rolling heavily in the confused swell at the harbour-mouth.
"Hard-a-port!"
Round swung No. 4452 just in time to escape collision with one of her sisters. Silhouetted against the ruddy glare an officer, megaphone in hand, leant over the rail of the returning M.-L.
"Cutter adrift. . . ." he shouted, and the rest of his words were lost in the din.
Farnborough raised his hand in acknowledgment. He understood; somewhere in that turmoil of strife a boat had had to be abandoned—a cutter with some of the survivors of the block-ships—otherwise the official in command would not have gone to the trouble of reporting it. Loss of material counted for nought that night. The sacrifice of His Majesty's stores mattered not at all, provided the main object of the operations was achieved; but with human life at stake all that could be done to effect a rescue must be attempted.
Rounding the Mole-head so closely that the extremity of her signal yard-arm almost scraped the masonry as she rolled to starboard, M.-L. 4452 gained the wreck-strewn harbour. Narrowly averting collision with a water-logged barge, part of the net defence works that the block-ships had rammed, the speedy little craft held on.
A sliver of shell brought her mast down with a run, at the same time blowing her search-light over the side. Branscombe's cap vanished through the broken glass of the wheel-house; a hot stabbing pain in his forehead caused him to raise his hand to his head. His fingers were wet, sticky and red. A piece of flying metal had seared his forehead.
The Sub hardly realized that he had been hit. An inch nearer and the wound might have been fatal, yet his narrow escape hardly troubled him.
"Mind that gear doesn't foul our prop!" he shouted to one of the crew—the man who had intended to buy an M.-L. for pleasure-cruising in those dim, far-distant halcyon days "after the war".
"Aye, aye, sir."
The man made his way to the side, where a raffle of wire was trailing over the splintered deck. The next instant his feet gave way under him and he sank inertly upon the deck.
In a trice Branscombe gripped him under the arm-pits and hauled him into the frail shelter of the wheel-house. One glance was sufficient; Brown, A.B. and ex-stockbroker, would never see the Stock Exchange again, nor would he be able to put his carefully-laid after-the-war plans into execution.
Another of the crew sprang forward, axe in hand. A few vigorous blows sufficed to cut the tangle of broken gear clear. His immediate reward was a machine-gun bullet through the left arm just above the elbow.
It was a hot time for M.-L. 4452. Apparently the other boats had completed their particular tasks, for, as far as the drifting smoke permitted, the harbour was clear of them. Fritz was hurling plenty of "hate" at the solitary little craft, and only her speed and handiness saved her from annihilation.
"No sign of the abandoned cutter," yelled Farnborough. "We'll hook it—if we can."
Hard a-starboard went the helm. With the port propeller running full-speed ahead and the starboard one half-speed astern, M.-L. 4452 spun round almost in her own length, just missing an undesirable acquaintance in the shape of a 6-inch shell that ricochetted and threw up a terrific column of spray within six feet of her bows.
Compared with the dash into the harbour the return journey was a horrible nightmare. The haunting possibility of being knocked-out recurred tenfold. The crew of the M.-L. no longer had their faces to the foe, they were literally running for safety, and exposed to blows in the back without being able to raise a finger in self-defence.
"There's the boat, by Jove!" exclaimed Branscombe.
"Where? How's she bearing?" asked the Lieutenant, for he was partly blinded by blood flowing from a gash in his forehead. Like his Sub, Farnborough hardly realized that he had been hit.
Telegraphing for "easy" and then "stop" the skipper brought his craft to a standstill within boat-hook stave's length of a water-logged dingy. Clinging to the partly submerged gunwale were two men.
"She's not a cutter, you juggins!" exclaimed Farnborough. "I believe those fellows are rotten Huns."
He was about to telegraph for "Full-speed-ahead both engines", when Branscombe gripped his arm.
"It's old Seton, by smoke!" he shouted, in order to make himself heard above the din.
Quickly the well-nigh exhausted men were assisted over the side, Seton minus a little finger, and the R.A.F. officer with a bullet wound completely through his left shoulder.
It was no time for explanations. Like a thing endowed with life M.-L. 4452 leapt forward. She was now on the point of repassing the badly-damaged lighthouse on the Mole-head. Here Huns, no longer in danger of being strafed by theVindictive'slanding-parties, were frantically blazing away with their quick-firers and machine-guns. A 4.1 shell fired at point-blank range furrowed the fore-deck and, without exploding, passed completely through the side a few inches above the water-line. Another blew the M.-L.'s "tin" dinghy into the sea, davits and all; while a third, striking the stern, smashed the quadrant of the steering-gear and blew off the head of the rudder.
M.-L. 4452 began to describe a large circle, her head falling off until she pointed straight for the Mole. To attempt to keep her on her course by means of the helm was an impossibility, for not only had the spare tiller—for use when as sometimes happened the steering-wires and chains carried away—shared the fate of the davits, but the rudder-head itself was bent and twisted by the explosion of the shell.
Immediately the ship was hit Branscombe made his way aft to investigate and report. He was back in the wheel-house just in time to find Farnborough and the coxswain lying motionless on the floor, and the M.-L., left to her own devices, circling to port.
The helm useless, Branscombe realized that he had to steer by means of the twin screws. Under ordinary conditions it was a tricky job, but the difficulties were now increased tenfold. A partly-disabled boat, nearly half her complement out of action; a dark, fog-enshrouded night with occasional bursts of dazzling light from search-lights, star-shells, and the flashes of guns; a short, confused sea, and the constant danger of ramming, or being rammed by, other craft manoeuvring without lights.
There were dozens of similar vessels out that night engaged in the same work. Frail little M.-L.'s, manned by amateur yachtsmen of yesterday, were achieving wonders. Men from the Clyde, the Solent, and the East Coast, whose knowledge of the sea was confined to a few days or weeks of summer cruising under favourable conditions, were proving their worth as fighters of the Empire. Experience gained in those dainty little yachts, snow-white of deck and glittering with burnished brass, was put to good use in those squat, grey-hulled M.-L.'s. It was on St. George's Day that the practically unknown R.N.V.R., unostentatiously at work as a unit of the great Silent Navy, suddenly leapt upon the pinnacle of fame.
A dense pall of smoke drifted down and enveloped M.-L. 4452. Branscombe had to steer solely by his sense of direction. He was one of those men who instinctively could find his way through a dense fog. At the back of his mind there was ever an impression—rarely, if ever, at fault—of the direction in which lay the north. The compass was useless: the same blow that had struck down the skipper and the coxswain had wrecked the binnacle.
The while the din was simply terrific. The air trembled under the violent, irregular pulsations of sound as guns large and small, exchanged their mutual "hate".
With all his work cut out to keep the vessel on her course Branscombe gripped both handles of the engine-room telegraph, and peered through the smoke-laden night. Feelings almost akin to panic assailed him. He was no longer a fighting man dashing into the fray, but a fugitive—a human being endeavouring to escape from all the terrors of the jaws of hell, as exemplified by the hitherto considered impregnable harbour of Zeebrugge.
"If the motors konk out we're dished," he thought, as he listened to detect any ominous sound from the pulsating engines. The vibration was excessive, far more than is usual even with a heavily-powered M.-L., but apparently the staunch little craft was still maintaining her speed.
"She's making water badly, old man," exclaimed a voice.
Branscombe turned his head to find Seton standing behind him.
"Think she'll last out?" inquired Branscombe.
"Another hour—that's all I can give her," was the reply. "The stern-post was badly strained when the rudder-head carried away."
"Auxiliary engine running?" inquired the M.-L.'s Sub speaking through the voicetube to the engineer.
"No, sir," came the answer. "The mag's six inches under water,"
That meant that the power bilge-pumps were useless. The hand-pumps were hopelessly jammed long ago. The search-light in being shot away had done that damage. There were no means now of checking the steady flow of water through the gaping seams.
By this time M.-L. 4452 had drawn out of range of lighter quick-firers. Shells from heavy guns still hurtled overhead, unseen but unpleasantly audible. Occasionally a huge projectile would ricochet close to the little boat as a grim reminder that other perils beside foundering were still present.
going
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[Illustration: "SHE'S GOING, LADS!" SHOUTED BRANSCOMBE]
[Illustration: "SHE'S GOING, LADS!" SHOUTED BRANSCOMBE]
Presently Branscombe fancied that the M.-L. was turning to starboard. A glance astern at the foaming wake was sufficient to confirm his suspicions. Altering the starboard telegraph to easy astern, and then stop, the R.N.V.R. Sub awaited developments. His fears were realized. Only the port engine was running, the other had "konked".
"Ignition, sir," reported the engineer in reply to Branscombe's inquiry. "I'll try and get her going in a few moments."
The fact that the little engine-room staff had been working knee-deep in oily water, and that the electric light had failed, added to the difficulties of the strenuously-engaged men. While one held an electric torch in position, the other was busily engaged in fitting new sparking-plugs—even if only to keep the motors running another quarter of an hour.
Branscombe signalled for the port engine to be stopped. It was worse than useless to run on one engine, since the M.-L. would circle aimlessly and possibly drift nearer the Belgian coast.
The M.-L. was rolling sluggishly. She always did roll heavily, but the motion was totally different. It suggested a lack of liveliness, and the gurgling sound of tons of water surging to and fro 'neath decks told its own tale.
M.-L. 4452 was foundering—slowly, but nevertheless surely. Her metal dinghy was a mere scrap of riddled galvanized iron. Her life-buoys had either been carried away, or had been shattered by machine-gun fire. Down below were half a dozen life-belts. These with a few wooden gratings were the sole means of supporting the survivors of the crew, all of whom, with the exception of the engine-room staff, were more or less wounded.
A rift in the persistent bank of smoke revealed nothing near at hand. Miles away could be seen search-lights and flashes of guns, as the monitors and destroyers were covering the retreat of theVindictive,Iris, andDaffodil. Apparently M.-L. 4452 had been carried too far to the nor'ard by the tide. Even if she contrived to keep afloat till dawn, the rising of the sun would expose her to the full view of the exasperated Huns ashore.
"She's going, old son!" exclaimed Seton, who had been engaged in strapping life-belts round the unconscious forms of Farnborough, Smith, and the coxswain. "Think yourself lucky it's your first swim to-night. It's my second, and the water's beastly cold."
"And it's a long swim to Dover," rejoined Branscombe facetiously. His sense of panic had now entirely deserted him. Practically beyond range of the hostile batteries, save for the chance of an unlucky hit from a long-range gun, he was now just a sailor bent on doing his level best to save his ship from disaster and his crew from drowning.
A couple of hands were told off below to ram every available piece of canvas gear into the broad wedges formed by the transom and the vessel's quarter, since it was here that she leaked badly. The canvas, saturated with oil, certainly checked the inrush, but whether it was possible to keep the M.-L. afloat was a question open to doubt.
Had it been daylight M.-L. 4452 would have presented a forlorn spectacle. Night hid her honourable scars, and toned down the ragged appearance of her shell-swept deck. She had had a gruelling. Holed in a dozen places, her mast, search-light, and most of her deck-fittings blown away, deep down by the stern, she had played her part.
The most strenuous efforts on the part of her engine-room hands were doomed to failure. With a foot of water surging over the beds of the motors, it was impossible to "get a kick" out of either of them. It was a case of both or none if the boat were to be steered at all. Yet, loath to admit failure, the two men toiled, with their hands almost raw and the sweat pouring down their foreheads, in the vain hope that the engines could be made to run once more.
Clad in a sweater, flannel trousers, and an oilskin—gear that he had annexed from the M.-L.'s ward-room—Seton was indefatigable in his efforts to assist Branscombe to save the ship. At his suggestion oil was thrown overboard to quell the effect of the rapidly-rising waves, while a rough-and-ready sea-anchor was rigged up and thrown over the bows to keep her stem-on to the vicious, crested breakers.
The R.A.F. pilot, who had now almost recovered from the effect of his immersion, was working strenuously, passing buckets of water up the hatchway in order to keep down the rising water in the hold. All available hands were doing their utmost, realizing that every moment gained meant an additional chance of preserving their lives.
At intervals Verey-lights were fired to call the attention of any vessel within reasonable distance of the sinking ship; yet minute after minute sped and no succour was forthcoming. Evidently the flotilla, its work accomplished, was on its way to England, and M.-L. 4452 with others would be reported as destroyed by enemy action.
Aft the water was ankle-deep on deck. The rolling became slower and more sluggish. It was now a question of minutes before the gallant little M.-L. made her last plunge.
Wearing their life-belts, the survivors mustered abaft the wheel-house, for Branscombe had given orders for the engineers to abandon the motor-room and fall-in on deck. The wounded and unconscious officer, and two of the deck hands, who were rather badly hit, were laid on deck, and also provided with life-buoys, their comrades volunteering to "stand by" them in the water until the last.
Facing peril, the indomitable British spirit prevailed. Every man of the little crew, save those who were unconscious of their surroundings, kept a stiff upper lip. While making every endeavour to save themselves they were resolved, should things come to the worst, to die bravely, conscious that they had done their duty to the end.
The M.-L.'s bows rose until her forefoot was clear of the water; her stern dipped until a surge of icy water swept for'ard as far as the wheel-house. It seemed as if she no longer had sufficient buoyancy to shake herself clear. Cascades of water poured through the hatchways and the gaping rents in her decks.
"She's going, lads!" shouted Branscombe, stating what was an obvious fact. The incongruity of the remark struck him almost as soon as he had spoken. Then—"Every man for himself, and the best of luck."
Even as they waited for the ship to sink beneath them, a long, dark shape loomed through the darkness. Coming seemingly from nowhere, a destroyer ranged up alongside the sinking M.-L.
"Jump for it, men," shouted a voice through a megaphone.
Under the lee of the destroyer, the M.-L., half water-logged lay comparatively quietly, rubbing sullenly against the large coir fenders hanging over the side of the rescuing vessel.
The wounded were first transferred, then the rest of the crew, Seton and Branscombe being the last to leave. The latter was not empty-handed; under his arm he carried the M.-L.'s smoke-discoloured and tattered White Ensign. The signal code-book he had thrown overboard when it seemed that hope was dead.
Even as Branscombe clambered over the rail M.-L. 4452 gave an almost human shudder and slithered beneath the waves.
The destroyer's work that night was not yet accomplished. While the rescued crew of M.-L. 4452 were hospitably entertained and provided with hot food and drink and dry clothing, she resumed her patrol off the Belgian coast. With others the destroyer was on the look-out for possible survivors, amongst them the crew of the cutter for which Farnborough was searching when entering Zeebrugge Harbour. It appeared that the M.-L. that had rescued the crew of one of the block-ships had the cutter in tow. In the latter were five or six men who for some inexplicable reason were not transferred to the M.-L.'s deck. They might have thought that remaining on the boat was safer than crowding on the M.-L.'s already congested deck. At all events the men stopped where they were, the cutter was taken in tow and the dash out of the harbour begun.
Then difficulties arose. The M.-L. was steering badly; the cutter was sheering violently. It was a question whether the towing-craft could weather the Mole-head. The parting of the towing-hawser settled the problem. How it parted no one on the M.-L. knew. It might have been shot through, or slipped by one of the men in the cutter; but, before the skipper of the M.-L. realized that it had parted, the cutter was lost astern in the darkness.
Two hours after the rescue of the crew of M.-L. 4452 the cutter was sighted and picked up fifteen miles from land. Her undaunted crew had almost miraculously made their way out of the shell-swept harbour and were resolutely straining at their oars determined, if not picked up by a vessel, to make the shores of England.
Zeebrugge had been effectually "bottled up". No longer could skulking U-boats descend the Bruges Canal and put to sea on their errand of ruthless and unlawful destruction. A flotilla of Hun torpedo-boats, too, was rendered useless by the closing of the port.
It was the most brilliant naval episode of the war. Accomplished under adverse conditions the loss of life, though deplorably heavy, was less than that of a land battle. The results were greater; directly, they practically sealed the fate of the U-boat campaign; indirectly, they made their moral effect fall not only on the Western Front but all over the vast area affected by the stupendous Battle of Nations. People, who, owing no doubt to the over-secretive policy of the Admiralty, were asking: "What is the British Navy doing?" were silenced. Zeebrugge provided an indisputable answer.
It was hardly to be expected that the oldVindictiveand the littleIrisandDaffodilwould return from the storming of the Mole, and arrangements had been made to take off their crews by means of the motor-launches, should the ships be sunk alongside the strongly fortified wall.
But they did. Battered, her upperworks riddled like sieves, her decks resembling shambles with their load of dead and wounded, theVindictive, with her White Ensign streaming proudly in the breeze, returned to Dover. One night's work had placed her on the same pedestal as Nelson's Victory. Proposals were submitted that she should be preserved as a national relic, and when the question was raised in the House of Commons the enigmatical reply was made: "The future of theVindictiveis a matter now under consideration".
Successfully the sealing of Zeebrugge was accomplished; but the simultaneous operations against Ostend, though brilliant in their conception and heroic in their attempt, failed to achieve the desired result.
A sudden change in the direction of the wind, local mists, a dark night, and the alteration in the position of the important Stroom Bank buoy all contributed to the glorious failure of a gallant attempt. Under a heavy fire, theBrilliant, making for the supposed position of Ostend piers, grounded. TheSirius, following slowly in her wake, immediately reversed engines, but, as the ship was already badly damaged by gun-fire and in a sinking she refused to answer to her helm. Before she could gather sternway she collided with theBrilliant'sport quarter. In the end, both vessels being hard and fast ashore, they were blown up, nearly a mile and a half to the eastward of where they ought to have been had observations been possible.
Here again, in the work of rescuing the crews of the stranded block-ships, the M.-L.'s played a successful and daring part. M.-L. 532, in attempting to run alongside, was badly damaged in collision. M.-L. 276 repeatedly went alongside theBrilliant, and in exceptionally difficult circumstances rescued most of the crew.
M.-L. 283, ranging up alongside theSirius, took off practically all her crew; then, notwithstanding the fact that her deck was crowded with men, she took off sixteen of theBrilliant'screw who had taken to a whaler, which had been sunk by gun-fire.
After the rescuing M.-L.'s had left, it was reported that an officer and some men belonging to theSiriuswere missing. That vessel was hard and fast aground, and subjected to a furious fire from the German batteries. It seemed impossible that anyone could remain alive on board the shattered hulk. But, since there was a very slight possibility, there was no hesitation on the part of the skipper of Coastal Motor-Boat No. 10. Under a heavy and accurate fire from 4.1-inch and machine-guns the C.M.-B. made a thorough search for the missing officer and men, but found no sign of life. Subsequently they were picked up thirteen miles out at sea, whither they had pulled in an open boat after the sinking of their ship.
It was no fault on the part of Commander Godsal that had caused the failure of the operations. Most men would have been content to rest on their laurels, but not so Godsal. Directly he reported to the Vice-Admiral at Dover he volunteered to make another attempt upon Ostend. His offer was accepted, and, while the nation was clamouring for theVindictiveto be exhibited as a show-ship, her hold was already being filled with cement in order to use her as a block-ship to complete the task that theSiriusandBrillianthad failed to achieve.
It was about a week after the return of theVindictiveto Dover that Alec Seton and Guy Branscombe were making their way along the esplanade in the direction of the Lord Warden Hotel, when they were hailed by Flight-lieutenant Smith.
"Gorgeous news, you fellows!" exclaimed the R.A.F. pilot, who had made a rapid recovery from the effect of his immersion in the icy waters of Zeebrugge Harbour. "I'm told off for the coming Ostend stunt. Got my orders from the Squadron Commander this afternoon."
"Some fellows get all the luck," grunted Branscombe. "'Spose we must congratulate you; but for Heaven's sake don't rub it in! We're properly hipped. Nobody up-topsides loves us. We're kind of social pariahs amongst the lucky dogs of the Dover Patrol. In short, we're fed up absolutely."
"I agree," added Seton disconsolately.
"What's upset your respective apple-carts?" asked Smith.
"Every mortal thing," replied Seton. "We both volunteered for work with theVindictive, and all we got was thanks and fourteen days' leave. There's been a most unholy scramble to take part in the stunt—fellows tumbling over each other, like a west-end bargain sale. One fellow puts forward his claim on the grounds that he was on theSirius, another theBrilliant, a third because he got into Zeebrugge and got out again. The 'Vindictives' naturally want to see the thing through, and they won't budge—so there you are. Branscombe's M.-L. isnon est, and they haven't given him a new one. I'm pushed out of the destroyer flotilla 'cause I've been chipped about a bit. The medical board tell me that I want rest—and it's rest that's driving, me silly. No chance of getting a lift in your 'bus?"
The pilot shook his head.
"Sorry—nothin' doin'," he replied. "Much as I appreciate what you've done for me in the past, you have asked me the impossible. I couldn't smuggle you in a 'plane, you know. Well, I must away. I'm just off to the Air Station."
"By Jove, Seton!" exclaimed Branscombe, as the pair continued their way; "that fellow Smith has given us the straight tip."
"What do you mean?" asked Alec.
"Said he couldn't smuggle us."
"Well, what of it?"
"Where's your imagination, old son?" continued Branscombe. "What's to prevent us doing the stowaway stunt on board theVindictive?"
Alec fairly gasped.
"Fine old hole we'd be in if we were found out," he objected.
"We mustn't be found out—at least until after the stunt is over," replied Branscombe; "then it doesn't matter so much. Either we won't be alive to bear the wigging, or else we'll be tails up. In that case I don't very much care what happens if we've had our whack of the fun."
"'Prejudicial to discipline and good conduct'," quoted Seton.
"So are a good many things," argued Branscombe. "In the Service there are two ways of getting a job done: the official and the non-official. It's only when you make a mess of things that you are hauled over the coals. Nothing happened to those fellows who refused to leave theIntrepidbefore she went into action. We'd both be able to do a bit with a quick-firer or a machine-gun."
"It's not a bad scheme," admitted Alec. "How do you propose to go about it?"
"You leave it to me," declared Branscombe "and I'm open to wager a month's pay that when theVindictivesails for Ostend, you and I will be on board."
"Good enough!" exclaimed Alec.
"Clear lower deck, supernumeraries fall-in on the quarter deck."
To the accompaniment of the bo's'un's mates' pipes the order given in hoarse, strident tones, was repeated in various parts of the ship.
TheVindictive, with 200 tons of cement in her after-magazines and in the upper bunkers on both sides, was lying in Dunkirk Roads in company with theSappho, which had been hurriedly fitted out at short notice to act as an additional block-ship in the operations against Ostend.
Two men clad in bluejackets' working rig heard the order not without emotion. The instinct to obey—the result of three years' service under the White Ensign—was strong; but resisting the impulse the two remained "as you were", sheltering from observation in a corner of a disused flat abaft the after-magazine.
Clearing out the supernumeraries—men embarked to assist in the navigation of theVindictiveacross Channel—was a slow process. Again and again alert, lynx-eyed petty officers scoured the ship to make certain that the additional hands had fallen in. More than once the flat in which the disguised Seton and Branscombe were concealed was inspected, but no one thought to pay particular attention to a heap of empty cement sacks that camouflaged the determined stowaways. After half an hour of suspense, they felt secure.
"They're gone," whispered Seton, taking a pull at a water-bottle and passing it on to his companion. "Stuffy show, isn't it? Good thing we provided ourselves with biscuits and water."
"Hope to goodness the stunt won't be declared off," remarked Branscombe. "Let's see; we're due to arrive off the Stroom Bank at 2 a.m. That means that we've got to lie low for another four hours. It wouldn't be safe for us to show up before 1.30 at the earliest."
"No one will notice us if we hang about the main deck," objected Seton. "I don't want to miss any of the fun. Besides, as soon as the ship's under way, they wouldn't slow down to send us ashore."
The somewhat erratic pulsations of theVindictive'sengines—for since the Zeebrugge operations, when her propellers got foul of the Mole, the hard-worked machinery was far from perfect—announced that the venerable and historic cruiser was leaving the Roadstead, and the two chums left their place of concealment and made their way to the starboard battery on the main deck.
Not a light was shown on board. In the darkness they were unrecognized as strangers, and boldly mingling with others of the depleted crew they had the satisfaction of finding that their carefully laid plan was being carried out without a hitch.
"What's wrong with the oldSappho?" inquired a seaman, who was looking out of the gun port. "She's dropping astern."
"Something wrong with her," agreed his "raggie". "Hope that won't put a stopper on this little jaunt."
As a matter of fact it very nearly did. TheSapphohad hardly cleared the anchorage when a man-hole joint in the side of her boilers blew out, instantly reducing her speed to six knots.
"It's all right, mates," announced a petty officer, who was making his way aft through the battery. "The Admiral has just signalled. We are to carry on without theSappho."
"The ball's opened," exclaimed several voices, when at 1.43 a.m. the sound of a furious cannonade was borne to the ears of theVindictive'scompany.
Unlike previous operations there was in this no preliminary bombardment. For several nights past Ostend had been left severely alone by our monitors and bombing planes. This had the result of lulling Fritz into a state of false security, and in consequence the took-outs were taking things easy.
But now, at a pre-arranged signal, hell was let loose over Ostend. From the air large bombing machines rained their deadly missiles upon the batteries and land-approaches to the town. From seaward the monitors, some with 17-inch guns, opened a furious and accurate bombardment, while from the battle line in Flanders heavy siege-guns pounded the hostile batteries on the left flank of the defences.
Almost immediately after the opening of the bombardment patches of local fog enveloped the approaching flotilla, while the artificial smoke-screen set up by the coastal motor-boats, although protecting theVindictivefrom direct fire, helped to render her navigation a difficult matter.
Through the night mists dull flashes showed that the British destroyers were standing in to engage the batteries, while the Huns, in a frenzied sort of way, concentrated most of their guns on a continuous barrage fire across the entrance to the harbour.
It was through this deadly hail of projectiles, large and small, that theVindictivewas literally compelled to feel her way. As long as she remained in the smoke-screen she was fairly immune from hostile fire, but directly she drew near the shore she would be the target of hundreds of guns.
Peering through a gun-port, which had been additionally protected by walls of sandbags, Seton noticed a white light showing faintly through the drifting smoke. It was the calcium light placed at certain intervals by the British to enable theVindictiveto fix her position, thus countering the ruse on the part of the Huns that had succeeded too well in the abortive attack on St. George's Day—the removal of the recognized navigation buoys.
For a little more than ten minutes theVindictiveheld on a course that ought to have brought her off the entrance to the harbour. Anxiously those responsible for navigating her kept a sharp look-out, in the hope of sighting the now familiar piers. Then, as the entrance was obviously missed, the ship altered course to west'ard, keeping parallel to the shore and maintaining a speed of only nine knots.
After a while orders were given to alter course sixteen points to starboard, which meant that the ship would retrace her course and steer eastwards. Again the elusive harbour was missed, and once more a course was shaped to the westward.
In the midst of this serious game of maritime blindman's buff—for it was possible to see only three hundred yards or so owing to the density of the fog and smoke—the entrance suddenly came into view at one cable's length distant on the port beam.
It was now neck or nothing. Orders were given to "prepare to abandon ship", the officers on the bridge retired into the conning-tower in order to con the ship with the least risk (as if such a condition were possible), and theVindictivewas steered straight for the harbour entrance.
Directly theVindictivesighted the shore the hostile batteries sighted her. Instantly a terrific cannonade was opened upon the ship.
In the midst of the terrific hammering, which shook the staunch old vessel from stem to stern, a petty officer came tearing along the deck.
"You hands fall in abaft the conning-tower," he shouted, addressing Seton and Branscombe. "Communication's broken down. You're wanted to convey orders to the engine-room. Look alive!"
There was no delay on the part of Alec and his chum to execute the order. At last they were doing something useful instead of remaining inactive in the battery, waiting to take the place of any casualties.
It was a dangerous post, for there was little or no protection without the conning-tower, which was one of the principal objectives of the German gunners.
The ship was still forging ahead, slowly but steadily. The air was thick with fragments of flying metal, as shells burst in, over, and around her.
At last! Literally making her way through a tornado of shot and shell, theVindictivepassed between the pier-heads. Smoke, pouring from her engine- and boiler-rooms, mingled with the vapour from bursting projectiles. Happen what might, the block-ship was inside the harbour and success was within reach.
It was now necessary to alter course, and since communication between the conning-tower and the steering-flat had been interrupted, Commander Godsal, quitting the doubtful shelter of the conning-tower, stepped outside and shouted for hard-a-starboard.
By this time the din was absolutely terrific. Seton, standing at the foot of the bridge-ladder, was unable to hear a word of the captain's order. He made a rush to ascend and get instructions.
"Pass the word for hard-a-starboard," shouted the captain again.
"Aye, aye, sir!" replied the disguised sub-lieutenant.
He was in the act of descending the ladder when a heavy shell hit the conning-tower. A hot blast literally blew Alec from the ladder and hurled him violently against one of the ventilating shafts. Deafened by the concussion, he strove to regain his feet, but his limbs seemed devoid of feeling. Wisps of burning woodwork were lying all around. His canvas jumper was smouldering, yet he lacked the strength to smother the smoking fabric.
The next impression was that of being lifted from the deck. Branscombe, seeing his chum's plight, had hurried to the rescue.
"Captain's orders: hard-a-starboard!" exclaimed Seton. "Leave me, old man, and pass the word."
Branscombe, waiting only to divest Alec of his smouldering jumper—it was a work of a few seconds only—tore off to the steering-flat. Promptly the hand-wheel party obeyed, and the cruiser swung round to port.
It was the last order that the gallant Godsal gave. The shell that had hurled Seton like a feather in a gale had literally blown theVindictive'sskipper to atoms. Lieutenant Sir John Alleyne, the navigating officer, was rendered unconscious by the concussion, which also gave the occupants of the conning-tower a bad shaking.
Immediately Lieutenant Victor Crutchley assumed command. Everything depended upon his orders during the next few seconds, for the ship was still swinging to port and, if her course was not altered, she would probably ground in a useless position.
Ordering the port engine to full-speed astern, Lieutenant Crutchley tried to get the ship to swing across the narrow channel between the piers. Unfortunately the port propeller, which had been badly damaged at Zeebrugge, refused its allotted task, and the ship's bows grounded against the eastern pier.
For a few moments it seemed as if the old ship would swing athwart the channel, but it soon became apparent that she was hard and fast aground. Nothing more could be done but to sink her as she lay.
The while theVindictivewas subjected to a terrifically hot fire. The after-control had been completely demolished, killing every man in it. The upper works were literally shattered, while the decks were littered with debris and the bodies of slain and wounded men.
"Don't move, old man!" exclaimed Branscombe, who had returned to his chum. "The order's given to abandon ship. I'll stand by you right enough."
"You've been hit," said Seton, as he caught sight of a dark, gradually-increasing stain on the right side of Branscombe's jumper.
"Machine-gun bullet copped me," replied Branscombe. "Nothing much. Heavens! We've had a hammering, but we're here this time."
"Any sign of the M.-L.'s?" asked Alec after a pause.
"They'll be here in a brace of shakes," replied Branscombe confidently.
TheVindictivehad now settled on the bottom of the harbour with a slight list to starboard. The Huns were still maintaining a hot fire merely out of sheer rage. They knew perfectly well that the ship was sunk, and that no military advantage could be obtained by continuing to shell her. They were determined to prevent the rescue of her crew. Massacring survivors of sunken ships is one of the gentle pastimes of the "Kultured" Hun, and he now was doing his best to keep up his reputation.
Meanwhile, on board the water-logged cruiser the utmost order was maintained. In spite of the galling fire, men were coolly searching for their wounded messmates and removing them to the safest possible places until the expected rescue craft arrived.
"Here they are!" shouted a score of voices, as a dazzle-painted M.-L. emerged from the pall of smoke and headed straight for the stranded ship.
Through the shell-torn water M.-L. 254 raced. Her cool and calculating R.N.V.R. commander knew his job. He came alongside, selecting theVindictive'sport side—that nearest the eastern pier—in which he showed admirable judgment, for in the narrow space between the ship and the pier the little M.-L. was temporarily sheltered from direct fire.
"Now, then!" exclaimed Branscombe. "Up with you, old man!"
Assisted by his wounded chum, Seton regained his feet. Desperately weak, he was able, with Branscombe's assistance, to make his way along the inclined deck to where the M.-L. lay grinding in the tidal swell.
Wounded men were being assisted on board the little craft with the utmost celerity, yet with due care to their desperate condition, until, with close on forty undaunted survivors of theVindictive'screw, M.-L. 254, heavily laden and deep in the water, cast off and backed astern. Great though her task had been to dash into the harbour, the difficulties that awaited her on her return run were far greater. Coolness, good judgment, and a special dispensation of Providence were needed to enable her to escape from the fiery jaws of the deadly trap.
Lying at full length upon the deck of the M.-L., Alec Seton underwent one of the most nerve-racking periods of his life. He could feel the wooden hull quivering under the pulsations of the powerful twin-engines, and the jarring thuds as missiles large and small struck the frail craft. By all the laws of naval warfare, M.-L. 254 ought to have been out of action long ago, for the Huns, finding their prey slipping through their fingers, redoubled their efforts to send the little boat to the bottom of the sea.
Machine-gun bullets sang through the air like the hum of a thousand angry bees. Men, crowded on the M.-L.'s deck, were hit over and over again. Of her own crew, the First Lieutenant and one of the deck hands were killed instantly, while the coxswain was badly wounded. Although three times hit, Lieutenant Drummond, M.-L. 254's skipper, stuck gamely to his post, cleared the entrance, ordered full speed ahead, and made for the open sea.
Into the merciful fog ran the little M.-L. Enveloped in mist, her human cargo was practically safe from fire, but another danger confronted the band of heroes.
The severe gruelling to which M.-L. 254 had been subjected had resulted, amongst other injuries, in the forepart being badly hulled 'twixt wind and water. In spite of every effort to stop the leaks, the M.-L. was settling by the bows.
Speed was promptly reduced in the hope that the inrush of water might be checked. At the same time sound-signals were made in order to get in touch with the off-shore destroyers. For nearly half an hour M.-L. 254 crawled along at slow speed without aid being forthcoming. It seemed as if her deck cargo of human beings—nearly all of them wounded—would soon be struggling for dear life in the numbing water, for the metal dinghy was hopelessly damaged and practically all the life-saving devices had been either swept overboard or destroyed by shell-fire.
Following the gallant and brilliant blocking operations, the threatened fate seemed doubly hard, yet with the heroic fortitude of their race the survivors made light of their difficulties, even laying odds on the chances of being picked up and cutting grim jokes upon the situation. They had faith that even in the fog and darkness the patrols would bear down in time to effect their rescue.
By this time the relative conditions of Seton and Branscombe were reversed. In spite of a slight wound from a shell splinter, Alec had practically recovered from his shaking. Although feeling stiff and bruised, he had regained the use of his limbs; while the wound, received as he lay upon the M.-L.'s deck, was little more than a skin-deep gash on his left cheek.
On the other hand, Branscombe, whose injury was more serious than he cared to admit, was feeling horribly weak from loss of blood. At last he had to give in and allow his chum to attend to his injuries.
With a knowledge of first aid—although hampered by the darkness—Alec cut away his chum's jumper. Just below the lowermost rib on the right side was a small puncture-wound, through which dark blood was welling sullenly. It was not enough to cause weakness unless the wound were bleeding internally. Very tenderly Seton turned his patient over on his side, and made the discovery that the machine-gun bullet had passed completely through, leaving a rather ugly wound where it had emerged.
By the help of a first-aid dressing, Alec succeeded in staunching the flow of blood; then, having done all that he could for the present, he sat down by his comrade's side and waited.
"We'll take to the ditch together, old son," he remarked. "I'll give you a hand. 'Sides, it'll soon be dawn, and then we'll be picked up."
Branscombe nodded in outward accord with his chum's plans. He knew perfectly well that Seton was deceiving him in an attempt to buoy up his spirits. It was some hours till dawn, and the temperature of the sea was too low to enable a man to keep afloat for more than twenty minutes.
"There'll be a fine old jamboree ashore if we are done in," remarked Branscombe. "I never told a soul that we were going on this stunt; not even my people."
"Neither did I," added Seton. "Officially we are on leave. That means we'll be posted as deserters if we fail to report. We were chumps not to take necessary precautions."
"Agreed," declared Branscombe. "It's the penalty for sailing under false colours. At anyrate we've been in the thick of the scrap, so that's some consolation. I say! think you could get me some water? My throat's like a lime-kiln."
Stepping over the prostrate forms of half a dozen exhausted and wounded men, Seton made his way to the companion-ladder leading to the little ward-room. A foot of water was flowing noisily to and fro over the floor. Abaft the bulk-head was the galley. For want of a cup Alec took down a small saucepan and held it under the tap of the water-tank.
The tank was empty. Even its large capacity was not sufficient for the needs of forty-odd thirsty men.
Foiled and disappointed Alec made for the deck. As he descended the ladder, a rousing cheer burst upon the night. Out of the fog a large vessel was bearing down upon the sinking M.-L.
Ten minutes later the survivors of M.-L. 254 and most of theVindictive'sofficers and men were safely on board H.M.S.Warwick, the flagship of Vice-Admiral Sir Roger Keyes, while M.-L. 254, her work accomplished, disappeared beneath the waves.
Equally daring was the brilliant affair of M.-L. 276, commanded, like M.-L. 254, by a Royal Naval Volunteer Lieutenant. No. 276 followed theVindictiveinto Ostend Harbour, her crew boldly engaging the Huns on both piers with machine-guns, as if to impress upon the enemy that they were there and intended to "make a splash". Running alongside theVindictive, after M.-L. 254 had taken off the survivors, the crew of the frail little craft shouted and searched for any possible hands who, in the hurry of abandoning ship, might have been overlooked. Finding no one, the M.-L. backed away the while under a terrific fire. In the midst of a hail of shell and machine-gun bullets the crew of the M.-L. saw a boat floating keel upwards to which were clinging three men.
These were rescued under most difficult circumstances, for the three were badly wounded and practically unable to help themselves. It was afterwards found that one of the rescued was Lieutenant Sir John Alleyne, on whom the command of theVindictivehad fallen on the death of the gallant Godsal.
Almost by a miracle M.-L. 276 got clear. Hit in fifty-five places and with three of her crew casualties, she managed to keep under way until picked up and taken in tow by the British monitorPrince Eugene.
The heroic ending of the oldVindictivewas literally the clinching of the last nail in the coffin of the Huns' Belgian Coast defences. St. George's Day had all but completed the work; 10th May, 1918 settled it. From that day the Belgian ports were useless to the enemy both as torpedo-boat and submarine bases. The Dover Patrol had closed and secured the Gateway of the Channel against all hostile traffic both on and under the sea.
"Think the beggars will put up a fight after all?" asked Lieutenant Alec Seton, D.S.C., as he raised his binoculars to sweep the misty eastern horizon.
"Not they," replied Lieutenant-Commander Trevannion of H.M.T.B.D.Bolero. "What little stuffing they did have has sunk into their boots. But, by Jove! I never thought they'd chuck in their hands so completely. Try to imagine a British seaman showing the white feather like that—you simply couldn't, for the very good reason that it's not in his nature. Hullo! The flagship's signalling."
It was a brand newBoleroof which Lieutenant-Commander Trevannion was skipper; Seton, on promotion, being appointed his second-in-command. TheScenawas in the North Sea some miles to the east'ard of Harwich; the time, dawn of the 20th day of November, 1918.
"The Day"—der Tag—was at hand. As Beatty had prophesied, the Huns had to come out, although the manner of their coming was greatly different from that which had been expected. Everyone was firmly convinced—it was an erroneous tribute to an upstart navy without a single tradition—that the German Navy would emerge at the last to commitfelo-de-seunder the guns of the Grand Fleet. It seemed incredible that the array of battleships and cruisers, ostensibly built to wrest the trident from Britannia's grasp, would tamely surrender without firing a single shot. But such was the case. The handing over of the German battleships, cruisers, and destroyers had already been arranged, and the White Flag Armada was due at Scapa Flow on the following day.
But the 20th of November was Tyrwhitt's Day—a fitting reward after four years of anxious watching, mingled with a few glorious scraps when Fritz did show his nose out of harbour. The first batch of 150 U-boats was due to arrive, officered by recreant Huns who, had they lived in a different age, would have been promptly hanged in chains at Execution Dock as common pirates.
So incredible to the British seamen did the tame surrender appear that many of them fully expected Fritz would put up a fight even for the sake of "saving his face" in the eyes of the world. After months of "Kolossal" boasting the Hun would surely not chuck up the sponge without resistance, even of the most treacherous kind.
But Admiral Tyrwhitt was a man who took no undue risks. Every vessel of the British squadron appointed to accept the surrender was cleared for action, while precautions had to be taken, before the U-boats left Germany, to draw their stings—in other words to remove the warheads from their torpedoes. In addition the German crews were ordered to fall-in on deck.
Covered by a hundred guns their fate would have been swift and sure had they foolishly given way to one act of treachery.
"U-boats in sight bearing E. by N.½N., distant three miles," came the welcome signal.
Very shortly afterwards Seton picked up with his glasses the first of the long line of German submarines—submarines no longer, since they were to keep on the surface until they passed into the hands of the ship-breakers. At the masthead of each flew a flag that throughout the Great War had never been flown from a vessel under the White Ensign, a rectangular white flag, bare in its simplicity and craven in its significance.
There was a fairly high sea running, the waves at times breaking completely over the approaching U-boats. Direct communication was impossible without risk of life and limb, so, except in a few instances, the act of taking over the prizes had to be deferred until they were within the limits of Harwich Harbour.
Overhead flew some of the gigantic British airships, while the air was "stiff" with seaplanes stunting daringly in sheer exuberance, for it was the airman's day almost as much as it was the navy's. Both the R.N. and the R.A.F., working in perfect co-operation, were responsible, for the successful climax to their strenuous labours.
As the first of the U-boats drew abreast of Tyrwhitt's flagship, the head of each of the double line of British light-cruisers and destroyers turned inwards through sixteen points of the compass; while each craft in succession, as she drew level with her corresponding prize, likewise circled, until the long line of German submarines was shepherded by two formations of British vessels each in line-ahead.
On board the German submarines there were many anxious faces. For the most part the officers looked sullen and felt uncomfortable. They were not altogether too sure of the nature of their reception. Some had consciences that had developed amazingly during the last few days. They remembered the hospital ships and unarmed merchantmen that they had sunk without pity, helpless boats' crews massacred in order to carry out the policy ofspurlos versenkt, and now they were regretting those brutal acts, not because they were brutal, but because there is such a thing as reprisal. Others, hopeful that Englishmen would be ready to shake hands and forget the past, were more cheerful. In any case the war was over, and with it the great chance of being sent to the bottom by the explosion of one of those dreadful depth charges.
No fraternization was the British Admiral's order. The hand of the cowardly Hun was too dirty to be grasped by that of a British tar. For all time the record of Germany on the sea will remain, and its effect will be seen in the aloof demeanour of all honest seamen toward the descendants of the Hun pirates.
On the signal: "Board, and take over the prizes", the boarding officers rowed off to their "opposite numbers". Seton, in theBolero'swhaler, ran alongside a large U-boat, whose six-inch guns and lofty conning-tower proclaimed her to be one of the latest type of fully 300 feet in length.
Punctiliously the U-boat kapitan-leutnant saluted, then held out his hand. Returning the salute, but ignoring the proffered welcome, Alec himself received a surprise, for the German was an old acquaintance, von Kloster.
The recognition was mutual. The German's sallow features turned ashy-grey. His frame shook with the emotion of fear. Never had he expected to come face to face with his former prisoner. He had been confident in the belief that Seton had been blown to atoms on Zeebrugge Mole.
"Mercy, mercy!" exclaimed von Kloster. "I vill amends make."
"Stow it!" interrupted Seton brusquely. The exhibition of panic angered him. "You've nothing to be frightened about. Now, sir, where are your papers?"
The formal deed of surrender was accomplished, but von Kloster seemed persistent to make a statement.
"Well, what is it?" asked Alec.
"You Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert remember?" asked von Kloster in broken English.
"I think I recall the name," admitted Seton grimly. "Where is the—er—fellow?"
"He is dead," declared the kapitan-leutnant.
He paused, hoping to catch a sign of satisfaction in Alec's face at the tidings. Seton's features betrayed nothing.