EMPTY SADDLES
‘Chicagohigh,’ announced the Fleet Surgeon of theParentis, throwing the dice on the ward room table.
‘One hundred, two hundred, three hundred and sixty-four,’ said the Staff Paymaster as he gathered them up. ‘Not so dusty, P.M.O., but watch Little Willie.’
‘Sixty, sixty-four, sixty-six, seventy-two,’ cried the surgeon triumphantly. ‘The worst cut of modern times. Waiter, Mr Ponsonby will provide cocktails.’
‘That shakes your wine bill, Pay,’ remarked the Engineer Commander. ‘Six cocktails makes you sit up and take notice.Anddon’t forget that you’ve got to shake with old “Snatcher” when “159” gets back. He’s absolutely undefeated, a regular snatcher of drinks at other people’s expense.’
‘You’re probably speaking from bitter experience, Chief,’ asked Blake, one of the submarine captains.
‘I am,’ replied the Engineer, shaking his head. ‘Last time I took him on I got six at “Chicago low,” and he lurked me with a possible. I used to think I was a pretty fair hand at cutting, butI admit that where “159” is concerned I’ve met my Waterloo.’
‘By Jove, yes. She ought to be in by now, unless she’s had bad weather, which isn’t likely. You can usually trust “Snatcher” to sit on the bottom if it comes on to blow. But he ought to be back shortly. I always work it so as to get back in time for a bath before dinner when I’m on the patrol he’s got now.’
‘Look here, P.M.O.,’ protested a voice from the other end of the ward room. ‘These people are ordering more gin. In the interests of public health and the Service I appeal to you, as a medical man, to tell them not to, to put your foot down; in a word, to stop it. They’re going to start the gramaphone and it’s only half-past six, and I can’t stand it.’
‘It looks to me like an advanced case of alcoholic neuritis,’ replied the surgeon gravely, ‘for which the only remedy is a prolonged course of ragtime on the gramaphone at eight a.m. It had better work itself out, that is, unless they include me in their disgusting gin debauch, in which case I don’t mind prescribing something a little less drastic.’
It was the hour before dinner, when every one congregates for a drink before going below to clean and change, and theParentis’sward room was crowded. It was large as ward rooms go, and furnished in the usual Service style, with maroon leather chairs and sofas, a long table coveredwith the green Service cloth, and cases of Encyclopædias and works on Naval history. The walls were adorned with photographs of the various submarines which had been attached to the ship at different times, and formed quite an interesting feature in themselves.
At present theParentiswas depot ship to a large number of boats, and as each boat had three officers, the Marine servants were usually kept pretty busy at cocktail time.
Youngish men mostly, the submarine captains would meet at this hour of the day and discuss ‘shop’ to an extent that maddened the more junior members of the mess. Little scraps of conversation they were, but not without meaning to the uninitiated, and based on the experience of men who sometimes carried their lives in their hands. Periscopes, stern-dives, and the latest class of boat were discussed, coloured with the charm of personal experiences and scraps of idle chaff.
‘The ‘Subs’ of the boats were either junior Lieutenants or senior Sub-Lieutenants. Earnest, talkative youths, very much alive to the responsibilities of their positions, and the burdens attaching thereto, who ordered their drinks with the abandon of those who have done a hard day’s work and ‘dare do all that may become a man.’
The remainder of the mess was composed of the depot officers: paymaster, surgeon, engineer, and watch-keepers, and the navigators of the submarines. These latter were all Lieutenants ofthe Royal Naval Reserve, whose ages ranged anywhere from twenty-three to forty; men from the great steamship lines of the Mercantile Marine, who had answered the country’s call at the outbreak of the war.
There was a general buzz of conversation over the room as friends discussed the events of the day and compared notes, before undertaking the more serious business of dinner.
‘I say, you fellows,’ exclaimed Seagrave to a group of brother ‘Subs,’ ‘“159” went to sea without any gin. “Bunty” tried to pull the strings twice, but the mess-man wasn’t having any.’
‘I know,’ chimed in another. ‘I went down the boat before she shoved off to try and get a drink out of him, but when I got there the cupboard was bare.’
‘By the way, aren’t they back yet?’
‘Don’t think so. You’d hear ’em quick enough if they were. They do seem to be a bit late. Probably strafed a Hun.’
‘If they’d done that they’d be back at the double. They hadn’t anything to celebrate it with.’
‘Can’t help their troubles, and if we don’t want to be late for dinner we’d better get moving,’ and, snatching his cap from a pile on the table, the speaker linked arms with a couple of cronies and waltzed out of the room.
‘My opinion,’ said the Torpedo Lieutenant to a circle of boat captains gathered round the fireplace,‘is that you fellows take life too seriously. Look at me. I work all day. I’m a fine figure of a man.... Now, then, no rude remarks, please. And I come in here in the evening as merry as a cricket.’
‘That’s all right,’ replied one of his listeners. ‘It all depends on one’s definition of the word work. You ought to look it up; you’d find it instructive.’
‘Your pardon, sir. My labours are long and strenuous. I went down three boats to-day and gave my valuable advice on Mark XX torpedoes. But alas! this is a thankless world. I received recompense in only two. The other boat had lost her corkscrew.’
‘Say, Boyd,’ cried a voice at the other end of the room, ‘how did the gyro behave last trip?’
‘A 1. I’m becoming a perfect knut at it. He only rang once. I’ve come to the conclusion that when you know the elements of its construction, it’s as easy as falling off a log. Yes, a cocktail, please, waiter. I had some trouble at first though, but that was my own fault. In fact I composed a song entitled “When the Sperry bell is ringing.”’
‘Mine’s jolly fine now, never makes a murmur.’
‘When you’re quite finished your harangue on work, a subject on which you are grossly ignorant, Torps, perhaps you will pay a little attention to me.’ The voice was Raymond’s.
‘Now, tell me why. Why am I to listen to your fatuous and narrow-minded remarks on a topicthat is not only entirely distasteful to me at all times, but altogether beyond the pale at this hour of the evening.’
‘My fatuous remark, as you are pleased to call it, was about to take the form of asking you to have a gin with me, but seeingthat——’
‘Kamerad, kamerad. I apologise—for once you talk as a Christian should. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend him your ears. He’s going to do the decent. I can feel it coming on.’
‘At one time, in my palmy days, when I was your age,’ said Raymond, raising his glass, ‘I could go a whole pint of beer without swallowing. But now—— It’s a bit ’ard. Cheer-oh, everybody.’
In the train of the drinks came the Marine servants bearing the table-cloths and silver, and a general move was made for the door.
‘This,’ said the Torpedo Lieutenant as he foraged for his cap, ‘is what I joined the Navy for. To dine and meditate with friends.... Damn it, Pay, you’ve pinched my bonnet.’
* * * * *
Private Boon, R.M.L.I., knocked at his master’s door.
‘Mr Blake, sir. ’Alf-past seven. Your bath’s ready, sir.’
The sleeper awoke, yawned, and threw one pyjama-clad leg over the bunk board.
‘All right. I’ll be out in a minute,’ he grunted.
The private withdrew and Blake turned over and looked at his watch.
‘Um,’ he groaned. ‘Better hurry up, I suppose, or some one will pinch my bath.’
As he slipped on a dressing-gown, a photograph on the table caught his eye.
‘Wonder if “159” has got back yet,’ he mused, as he made his way down the corridor. ‘Ought to be in by now,’ and he disappeared into the bathroom, where sounds of splashing and ‘Miserere’ in a deep bass shortly issued.
On his return he found the private of Marines busy in his room.
‘Is “159” back yet, Boon?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, sir. I’ve got Mr Shelldon’s room ready for ’im. But they ain’t back yet, sir.’
A vague uneasiness crept over Blake. What was ‘Snatcher’ doing that he was twelve hours overdue?
‘Oh, rubbish,’ he told himself as he began dressing, ‘I expect he’s been delayed some way or other. Engines broken down or something.’
‘Yes, boiled eggs in ten minutes’ time, Boon, not too hard, please.’
Breakfast in theParentiswas not what would be called a cheery meal. Conversation was not encouraged, and hilarity of any sort met with frowning disapproval. The sober-minded read newspapers, while their less literary brethren kept their mouths shut except for the necessity of admitting food.
When the more senior members of the mess had got to the first pipe stage, the ‘Subs’ departedto muster their crews, and the navigators drifted off to odd jobs. The captains of boats congregated round the fireplace and discussed plans for the day, while the doctor censored letters and the Staff Paymaster busied himself with the wine books. Gradually the groups broke up and the Marines began tidying the room for the morning.
In the early hours—at six o’clock to be exact—the ship’s company had been fallen in by the officer of the watch, and under the eagle eye of the First Lieutenant had scrubbed the decks and cleaned the brass till theParentisshone like a new pin. Alongside her, four on one side and five on the other, were her charges, the submarines, at present in a state of ordered chaos due to work of an extensive and all embracing character.
At eight o’clock the crew, mustered in their boats by their respective ‘Subs,’ were told off for the labours of the day, and by five minutes past were all hard at it. The E.R.A.’s were busying themselves in their engine-rooms and the electrical ratings on various jobs that came within their sphere, while the remainder were cleaning all brass and steelwork and were kept at it by the vigilant ‘Subs.’
Navigators were correcting charts and cleaning gyro compasses, and now and again the captains would dodge below to superintend, or two or three of them would hang round a periscope or a torpedo-tube arguing a knotty point or demonstrating the correctness of their theories.
It was a fine warm day, and theParentislooked like a hen in a gilded coop with her chicks clustered about her. All round her lay the Fleet; picket boats danced across from ship to ship, the sound of a Marine band drifted over from a neighbouring battleship, and the buzz of work rose on the air.
The officer of the watch, resplendent with a sword-belt and telescope, walked the quarter-deck, keeping a general eye on everything that took place. The quartermaster, corporal of the watch, and messengers hung round the gangway, and even the distant bridge was a scene of activity, where a gray-haired yeoman of signals harried his signal staff round the gaudy flag lockers.
Forward an R.N.R. Lieutenant was drilling the boys’ division at physical exercise, and down below the submarine attack ‘teacher’ was being kept busily employed.
A picket-boat approached the gangway. The midshipman who was steering held up four fingers and laid them on his coat-sleeve, and as she swung alongside the gangway party formed up. A tall, erect figure stepped out of the boat, the bos’n’s mate shrilled on his pipe, the quarter-deck came to attention, and the officer of the watch saluted. A Post Captain had come aboard.
The boys’ division fell out and gave place to a squad under torpedo instruction; the Marine detachment paraded, and then the bugle sounded ‘Stand easy.’
Men came up out of the boats to snatch a smokeduring the ten minutes’ respite; or laid aside their brass rags and departed to the mess decks. Ten minutes blessed relief before ‘Carry on’ sounded by the diminutive Marine bugler sent them back to their tasks.
Later, the Captain of the depot held his court for defaulters. Then ‘cooks’ was sounded, the rum was served out, and at eight bells, noon, came the welcome dinner call.
Up over the side came the crews, followed in a more dignified manner by the officers, who dived below to their rooms, to wash and don a clean monkey-jacket for lunch.
Blake came up out of his boat, fully expecting to see ‘159’ in her accustomed berth, and it was with quite a shock that he realised that she had not yet returned. It was with a presentiment of something seriously amiss that he presently took his seat at the luncheon-table.
The same feeling seemed to express itself in the others’ faces, but this might be only his imagination. No one spoke of ‘159,’ in fact they all seemed to leave her severely alone. But there was a general feeling in the air that all was not well, and it seemed evident, though no word was actually spoken, that everybody fully realised the fact that she was now sixteen hours late, and a boat that is sixteen hours overdue in war-time ... well, thingsmayhave happened.
Once he made a casual remark to his neighbour on the matter. His answer was merely a nodbetween mouthfuls, so he dropped the subject and said no more about it.
But for all that, he was becoming convinced that something had taken place ... out there. ‘Snatcher’ Shelldon and he had been friends since theirBritanniadays. His surroundings looked unfamiliar and a sickening anxiety came over him. ‘How could the others go on eating when perhaps?...’
He pulled himself together and made a pretence at a meal. ‘Mustn’t give way to morbid imaginings,’ he told himself.
The meal over he sat apart and tried to collect his thoughts and enumerate various minor mishaps that might have delayed the boat. No, he could think of none that would account for it under the circumstances.
At one-thirty work was resumed, and he plunged into a fever of exertion to take his thoughts off the subject. He made up his mind he wouldn’t come on deck before four o’clock, when work ceased for the day, and then either the sight of ‘159’ would dispel all doubts or else he had no more to hope for.
But at four o’clock, when the hands were piped to tea, there was still no news, and shortly after ‘evening quarters’ two destroyers slipped quietly out of the harbour. Those who noticed their departure thought nothing of it at the time, and only wondered why the Captain’s temper seemed the worse for wear.
By dinner time it was evident that every one in the mess was awake to the fact that a boat was missing, and in fine weather, too. Nobody mentioned her; they all kept studiously off the subject, but the conversation was subdued and everybody’s nerves seemed slightly on edge. Many of them had friends among the absent officers, and no one liked to voice the general opinion, although it would have been a relief if some one had.
It was not a cheery meal, and they were all glad when it was over.
Thus it was left to Private Boon to rush in where angels feared to tread.
‘That’s three of ’em less to lay for,’ he said.
* * * * *
Two days later the captain of the depot sat alone in his after-cabin.
He was bending over the writing-table, surrounded by envelopes, paper, and accessories, but his thoughts did not seem to flow. He sat staring in front of him with unseeing eyes and chewing the end of his pen.
At last he sighed and addressed himself to his task. Three letters he was writing, to anxious women who were waiting and hoping beyond hope, two wives and a lonely mother, to tell them that they might hope no longer. This kindly old gentleman was compiling the missives which were to bring anguish and sorrow to the hearts of those who waited.
They were more than junior officers to him.One was the son of an old comrade and the others had served long under his command. To them he had been, no doubt, rather a terrifying person with four gold stripes on his sleeve, but to him, they were his boys; he had been through it all himself, he was training them, and he was proud of them. Above all came the Service, and he had trained them for the good of the Service. A kindly word now and again and a sharp reprimand when needed had been the secret of his successes, and beneath his gruff exterior he had a warm feeling towards them. Now he had lost them and his work was to do over again.
His hand was about to bring grief unspeakable to their dearest and....
He finished his letters; the few kindly, sympathetic words that were to be almost death-blows on the morrow, and as he raised his head from the table and glanced into the mirror he saw the face of a tired old man.
* * * * *
Blake picked up the photograph and held it close to the electric light. As he studied the honest face it depicted, his memory flew back to theBritanniadays when Shelldon and he had started their careers. They had been the same term and had gone through all their early trials and tribulations together. Later, ‘Snatcher’ had spent one or two holidays with him, and years afterwards the friendship had been cemented by his engagement to Blake’s sister.
He remembered the wedding, and how as best man he had put in one of the hardest day’s work in his life. He smiled as he recalled his friend’s delight when first he had been promoted to captain of a boat, and he put down the photograph and sighed.
‘It seemed so cold-blooded. To go out and just disappear. No trace, nothing. Blown to pieces on a mine probably. He could picture the scene. The men quietly reading and talking and then suddenly a blinding crash and nothing more. If some one could only have seen them. But the two destroyers that went in search had only found a patch of oil. Just went out and disappeared. And Molly....’
A knock sounded at the door.
‘Come in,’ he called, hastily stowing the photograph away.
Raymond entered with an air of studied indifference.
‘Hope you’re not busy, old man,’ he said with forced gaiety.
‘No, no. I’m not doing anything. Come in.’
‘Good. I wanted to know if you would lend me your T.I. to-morrow. Mine’s gone sick and I’ve got a job of work on hand I want finished.’
‘Yes, of course, you can. Take him and bless you. I’ll send a chit to my “Sub” about it.’
Raymond hovered with the door-knob in his hand, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and left quietly.
Out in the flat, he faced his friend’s cabin, and raising his fists in the air, called Heaven to witness.
‘Oh, Bloody War!’ he exclaimed.
* * * * *
‘As a general rule, mind you, I don’t ’old with officers, but ’e was a gentleman.’
The speaker spat over the side to emphasise his point, and relapsed into silence.
The lower deck sat round in small knots and coteries and smoked for the most part without unnecessary speech. The pipes were going, the evening was dark and still, and the lower deck was in a contemplative mood.
‘Yes,’ continued the Seaman Gunner, ‘’im and ’is mates was gentlemen.’
‘Pal o’ mine, Mick ’Ardy, was in ’er,’ quoth the S.T. ‘Fust trip in a submarine, too. Out fer trainin’. ’Ard I calls it.’
‘Strewth,’ said a voice out of the darkness, ‘we was on ’er patrol last trip. Bit o’ luck we didn’t come a kisser.’
‘It was that,’ put in the signalman. ‘We’re doo out to-morrow.’
Once more silence. Three bells struck and a bugle sounded from a distant battleship.
‘I’d like to know wot ’appened,’ said the voice out of the darkness. ‘Struck a mine likely. When I come into submarines, my old woman she sez tome——’
‘Stow it,’ growled the Seaman Gunner. ‘Onlythe other day, ’e sez, “’Bout time,” ’e sez, “you went up for Leading Seaman. I want to see you gettin’ a ’ead. I’ll ’elp you through,” ’e sez.’
‘Wot I think,’ said the Stoker, ‘is, strike me pink. If I don’t pulverise the first ruddy ’Un I meets, Gawd strike me pink.’
‘Pipe down,’ shrilled the bos’n’s mate.
* * * * *
Private Boon was busy. He stood in his shirt-sleeves in the midst of a chaos of his own making.
Outside the cabin was a sea-chest of generous proportions, and in the bunk he had placed a tin uniform case, a helmet case, and divers bags and portmanteaux.
He was a careful packer, but his methods were unique. He liked to see things round him, and after the manner of an inquisitive terrier, he began to strip the drawers of their contents and strew garments high and low. The table, the chairs, and the bunk was soon piled high, and when the last drawer gaped void and empty he surveyed his handiwork with the eye of a connoisseur.
But he showed himself a past master of the art when he began packing the uniforms in the tin case. Every article was carefully shaken, brushed and folded, and reverently placed in its appointed spot. This portion of his labours completed, he dealt with the sea-chest, and by that time the collection round the cabin had materially decreased.
Having finished the clothes at last, he turned to the more personal objects, scrutinising each one before finally disposing of it.
‘Ash tray, silver too,’ he soliloquised. ‘Give ’im by a girl likely. ’Air brushes, monogram an’ all. Nice bit o’ work. Books, letters, fountain pen. I think that’s the lot.’
His eye caught a small silver frame standing on the table forlorn and forgotten.
‘’Ullo, photograph.’ He held it to the light. ‘Nice-looking young woman,anda kid. Might be ’is Missis. P’raps it is, poor gell!’
He locked the cases and looked round the cabin.
‘Nothin’ forgot. No. I think that’s all this time.’
With much laboured breathing he wrote the owner’s name and address, and, carefully tacking the card on the lid of the sea-chest, stood back to admire the result.
‘Effects of the Late Lieutenant Shelldon,R.N.——’
Through the open port the sound of an order floated, and the churning of twin screws. It was ‘147’ going to sea.
A Sub-Lieutenant and a Midshipman stood on the quarter-deck of a neighbouring battleship.
* * * * *
Said the ‘Sub,’ aged twenty, to the ‘Snotty,’ aged nineteen, ‘I bearded the Commander in his den to-day, and flopped in my application.’
‘Did you? What did he say?’ inquired the Midshipman.
‘Look out, he’s over there. Said it was all right and he’d see the Captain about it to-morrow.’
‘You lucky beggar. I wish I could get in, but they won’t take us “Snotties.”’
‘Perhaps you’ll get in when you’re my age,’ returned the bearder of Commanders patronisingly.
‘By gum, yes. I hope so. I’ve always wanted to be in a submarine, ever since the Marmora business.’ He gazed across at theParentis. ‘Look, there’s one of them going to sea. Can you see which she is?’
The ‘Sub’ shaded his eyes.
‘“147,” I think. Billings is in her. He’s my term, and he got in without much trouble. I ought to get it in two months or so with any luck.’
‘That’ll mean drinks all round then, that’s one comfort,’ said the Midshipman enviously.
‘Oh, I shan’t mind standing drinks once I’ve got it. Man, you’re practically your own boss there. Think of it, no school or bally drills. You’re not treated as a child like you are here.’
‘I don’t know about that. That picket-boat job I had yesterday wasn’t much of a joke.’
A signalman came through the screen door and approached the Commander, who was conferring with the Boatswain on the other side of the quarter-deck.
‘Signal, sir,’ he reported.
The Commander looked round impatiently.
‘Well, what is it? Read it out.’
‘Flag, General, sir. From two to three p.m. Colours will be ’alf mast owing to the loss of Submarine “159.”’
‘All right. Show it to the Officer of the Watch. Now, about that new manilla, Mr Bostock....’
The signalman saluted and carried on.