PATROL
HisMajesty’s Submarine ‘123’ lay alongside her depot shipParentis, her lean, gray superstructure showing up ghostly white against the dark outline of the larger vessel.
The night was warm, though dark and overcast, and the light south-easterly breeze merely ruffled the waters of the harbour, causing a lap-lapping noise between the two vessels, the only sound that broke the intense silence of the summer night.
As the great fleet, anchored in the harbour, swung to the turn of the tide, ‘123’ exposed her broadside, a long low hull bulging outwards at the centre, and supporting the superstructure, on the fore part of which the gun was mounted. Amidships rose the conning-tower and the little bridge, the standard and the two periscopes, pointing up to Heaven like the fingers of an avenging angel.
The after deck was bare save for the dark rings of the hatches, leading down to her steel internals.
The anchored fleet showed up in dark blurs and splotches, as far as the eye could see. Line after line of battleships, battle cruisers, destroyers and torpedo boats, backed up by a host of merchant ships of every type and size.
A light gleamed suddenly from the submarine,faded away, flashed out, and disappeared. Figures moved quietly along the deck, and the sound of subdued voices rose, broken now and then by the clump of a wet rope’s end or the clang of a closing deck locker.
Then the conning-tower hatch opened and Lieut. Commander John Raymond, R.N., in command of H.M. Submarine ‘123,’ rose to view, heaving himself through the narrow opening by painful sections.
He was a big, strongly-built man of about thirty-three, clad in an old—a very old—suit of uniform, a muffler, sea-boots, a pair of binoculars, and his own inborn modesty.
After him came the navigator, an R.N.R. Lieutenant, lovingly clasping the gyro compass repeater to his bosom, and muttering imprecations the while on the coil of electric cable which trailed up after him like a spider’s web.
‘Phew!’ he said, sniffing the air. ‘Dark night.’
The captain glanced quickly fore and aft.
‘All ready, coxswain?’ he queried.
A burly figure now loomed up on the now crowded conning-tower.
‘All ready, sir.’
Raymond leant down and pulled a lanyard, and a bell rang below in the control room.
‘Sir,’ boomed a voice as a face appeared in the circle of the hatch.
‘All ready below?’
‘All ready, sir.’
‘Group down?’1
‘Grouped down, sir.’
‘Let go fore and aft,’ cried Raymond to the waiting men on the superstructure.
‘All gone, sir.’
At the fore part of the conning-tower a small pedestal rose containing the magnetic compass and steering gear and a number of small switches.
Raymond pressed two of these and a hooter or ‘Klaxon Horn’ sounded below, a bell rang, and the twin screws began to revolve.
‘Astern both it is. Helm amidships.’
‘’Midships, sir,’ from the coxswain.
‘Keep a look out aft, Boyd,’ said Raymond, turning to the navigator.
‘Ay, ay, sir,’ came the answer, then ‘all clear aft, sir.’
‘The Klaxon’s sounded again.’
‘Ahead starboard, astern port. Hard-a-starboard!’ snapped Raymond.
‘Hard over, sir,’ chorused the coxswain.
‘123’ stopped coming astern, gathered herself together, and then slowly surged ahead and swung round as sedately as a dowager.
‘Stop port. Ahead port,’ snorted the ‘Klaxon.’
‘’Midships,’ from Raymond. ‘Steady. Take her out.’
‘Take her out, sir.’
The boat steadied on her course and travelledsilently down the harbour on her electric motors, carefully picking her way between the dark shapes of the anchored vessels.
Conversation on the bridge was at a premium. Tempers are apt to be short and livers out of order at one o’clock in the morning.
Presently Raymond looked ahead through his binoculars and jerked the bell lanyard impatiently.
‘Group up!’ he called down the shaft.
‘Grouped up, sir,’ came the answer.
The subdued churning of the twin screws ceased and as suddenly started with redoubled energy as the batteries came in series, thrashing up the water astern and causing the boat to vibrate fore and aft as she leapt forward to the touch of the grouper switch.
Down in the electric lit interior the L.T.O.2and an S.T.3were working the motor switches, ‘making and breaking’ in obedience to the telegraph lights, to which the ‘Claxtons’ called attention. Right aft in the engine-room the Chief E.R.A.4was hovering over the tail shafts with an oil can and a lump of dirty waste, with the air of a demon of the revels.
Forward of him were the air compressors and main motors, and the engine clutches, and then the great eight-cylinder Diesel engines, a mass of burnished steel and brasswork in a narrow electric lit tunnel. The faint hum of the motors and thesmell of fuel oil pervaded the air, but the cheery faces of the stokers on watch robbed the scene of its romance.
One of them who was whistling ‘Tennessee’ three tones flat, and bending over a clutch with a dignified expression, straightened up as a man came down the engine-room hatch.
‘’Ere, Sam, you remember that gell wot——’ he began.
‘’Strewth,’ quoth the new-comer. ‘Ain’t it got dark sudden?’
‘It usually does,’ broke in another voice from behind the engine, ‘at night-time.’
‘No, I don’t remember any gall,’ replied Sam with some asperity; ‘and wot’s more, if that clutch ain’t ready pretty damn soon, you’ll be spoke to.’
‘Way down in Tennessee——’ continued the worker, ignoring the insult, in a masterly manner.
Through the door in the engine-room bulkhead came the Chief E.R.A. to hurl an insult at a tardy message-bearer, but the hoot of the telegraph sent him diving back to his lair almost immediately.
‘Stop ’er,’ cried the L.T.O., working the switches to the accompaniment of a hiss and crackle of blue sparks.
‘Engines!’ came Raymond’s voice from above. ‘Three hundred revs.!’
‘Engines!’ shouted Furness, the L.T.O., into the engine-room. ‘Three ’undred!’
‘The ‘Chief’ waved a reply, and with a snip of switches the motors started again. Then theengine clutches came home and the Diesels began to heave with a fizz bump, fizz bump, fizz, fizz, fizz, as the needles of the ammeters came back from discharging, past zero and on to charging.
Once more Hoskins waved a grimy hand and the motor workers broke their switches. She was away on her engines at ten knots now, her exhaust, which had started in oily puffs, rapidly thinning astern to a white semi-transparent vapour.
Into the battery-room at this juncture came the ‘Sub’ of the boat, an ingenuous youth of nineteen, bearing upon his youthful shoulders as second in command all the anxieties and troubles of the world.
‘All right, Furness?’ he asked.
‘Yessir, she went off very well.’
‘Good,’ replied Seagrave, looking at the volt-metre on the low-power switchboard. ‘Keep the lighting down to a hundred and ten.’
He wandered off under the mess tables, clipped up to the steel ceiling of the compartment to examine the gyro master-compass, a large mushroom-shaped object of steel and electricity, whose rotor buzzed round at the rate of over eight thousand revolutions a minute.
On his left were the electric cooking range, lockers and battery ventilators, and overhead were the great vents which let the air out of the main ballast tanks when the boat dived.
Presently, satisfied with the ‘Sperry’ compass, he stepped forward through the watertight doorinto the control room, a regular holy of holies, on whose shrine were offered many tins of ‘Brasso’ daily and much elbow grease and bad language by heated and voluble ‘matlows.’5
Here were the levers which opened the great Kingston valves in the bottom of the boat and flooded the tanks for diving. Here was the adjusting pump, by means of which water could be pumped from any one tank to another and into or from the sea. Aft was the periscope, a long steel tube sticking up through the roof, fitted with an eye-piece and graduated rings at its lower end. On the port side were the hydroplane and diving rudder wheels, and the depth and pressure gauges. Forward was the air manifold, by means of which, on opening the Kingston valves, air could be blown into the tanks at a pressure of over 75 lbs. to the square inch, and so force the water out of them when the captain wished the boat to rise.
In the centre, up through the ceiling, was the conning-tower shaft, gained by a steel ladder, above which was another periscope and the torpedo firing gear.
Another watertight door led into the fore compartment where the battery-ventilating fans were running, and the ceiling was interlaced with the usual profusion of vents and shafts. Right aft an operator was tuning the wireless installation, beyond which were the crew’s lockers and the flag racks. On the port side was the chart tableand two bunks, one high up, and the other formed by a drawer, which on being pulled out and stayed up, disclosed the bedding all neatly stowed away. Underfoot, as in the after compartment, was the great hundred-and-twenty volt battery which fed the hungry motors, and forward were the air bottles and fuel tanks.
In the bows were the torpedo-tubes, whose brass doors winked in the electric light, hiding the wicked torpedoes behind their shining faces. A turn of the bow cap and a pull at a lever, and they would be off at forty knots to reap a harvest of death and destruction. Abaft the tubes were spare torpedoes, shining steel cylinders with copper war-heads, holding sufficient T.N.T. to sink a Dreadnought.
The men were moving quietly about their work, the watch below preparing to turn in while the remainder were cleaning and adjusting and getting ready generally for the coming sea trip.
Once out of the harbour, ‘123’ lifted gently to the swell, and with her hydroplanes turned out and all hatches closed, with the exception of that from the conning-tower, was cutting through the water like a great porpoise.
By now the crew had settled down to sea routine, and only the captain, navigator, and coxswain were on the conning-tower bridge, and an occasional seaman or stoker up for a breather or smoke-oh.
Boyd, who had been looking aft intently, lowered his binoculars and glanced at the compass.
‘Bearing’s on, sir,’ he reported. ‘Course is fifty-six.’
‘All right. Steer fifty-six. That’ll do, coxswain. Helmsman to the wheel.’
The coxswain was relieved and bustled below, and a young A.B. took the wheel, or rather the electric switch which, by a movement of the finger, altered the direction of the ship’s head.
‘Wonder if we’ll see anything this time,’ continued the skipper. ‘Fritz doesn’t seem to be over-anxious about coming out lately. I never seem to have any luck, but he’ll be a nasty customer to tackle if ever we do run across him. He won’t give in while he’s got a kick left in him.’
‘Gets a bit monotonous,’ admitted Boyd. ‘My brother’s in France. Sometimes I wish I were out there too. They do see something of the scrapping at any rate. What gets on my nerves is this constant being on the alert and never seeing anything. If you were told you were to go out and strafe a Hun one wouldn’t mind. It’s the uncertainty of the business that shakes me.’
‘Now, I can’t allow you to complain of your lot,’ replied Raymond. ‘Here you are in one of the latest inventions of the twentieth century, and even that doesn’t satisfy you. When you have met George Willie in his little sardine tin you won’t be quite so anxious.’
‘Two o’clock,’ he continued, glancing at his watch. ‘We’ll dive at half-past five. Call me at a quarter past.’
‘All right. I’ll stop up till then. No need to wake Seagrave.’
Raymond’s legs disappeared down the hatch.
‘Call me if you see anything,’ he said as he went down, ‘and if you should run across Fritz, man the gun and Hun him instanter. I’ll be up before you get the first round off.’
‘Very good, sir. Good-night.’
‘Good-night.’ And the captain vanished below, like a stage demon down a trap.
Left to himself, Boyd lit a pipe, took a look round with the glasses and peered into the compass, where a thin circle of light showed up the figures on its face.
The night was clear now for the clouds had rolled away, but it was still very dark. All round was the dark rim of the horizon, and just below, quite close, was the greedy ocean, lapping up over the superstructure as the boat hurried on. The stars gleamed tranquilly and the night seemed very still.
A queer feeling this, with only the helmsman and the click of the gyro compass for company; like being adrift on the open sea in a small motor-boat. Darkness and the faint chug-chug of the engines leant an eeriness to the situation, and the proximity of the water only added to its intensity. Down through the hatch Boyd could see a small circle of the control room, where a messenger was sitting on a camp-stool reading a penny magazine with evident enjoyment. Above and all around,nature and solitude; below, men, the smell of cocoa, the engines of death and ... a penny magazine.
The watch dragged slowly on, and Boyd, seated on the little round stool screwed into the deck, began to feel the chilliness of the dawn. He rose and commenced pacing the ‘bridge.’
Not much room to walk here, for the periscope standard rose abaft the conning-tower hatch, and beyond that were the bridge berthing wires. Three steps and turn. Three steps and turn....
Then suddenly a broad white finger of light shot up over the horizon on the port bow, cleaving the darkness with an eerie suddenness.
Boyd rang the bell.
‘Tell the captain that a searchlight is visible from the enemy coast,’ he called to the messenger in the control room.
A minute’s pause, the light wavered, steadied, and went out.
‘Captain says all right, sir,’ came the voice up the hatch.
‘Thank you,’ replied Boyd, relighting his pipe and settling down on the stool again.
The boat sped on through the darkness. Somewhere away ahead, as evidenced by that broad beam of light, lay the hostile coast towards which the lean, grim-looking craft was racing as fast as Heaven and Hoskins could make her go.
A brawny stoker rose for a breath of air like some giant seal, and, in deference to the officer, took his stand on the other side of the bridge. Hewas followed by the signalman, and the two men lit their pipes and conversed in low tones.
Not much room up here for four men; the little bridge was crowded now.
When they had gone down, Boyd rang the bell again and muttered the magic words, ‘food and cocoa,’ to the face that appeared in the circle of light below, and presently a hand shot up out of the hatch bearing a steaming mug which he hastily relieved of its burden.
The hand disappeared and returned with a biscuit-tin, and finally vanished altogether.
The dawn was now paling the eastern sky, and the wedge of fore-deck began to take shape and harden as the light gained strength. The faint glow in the compass died out, and the coast ahead became visible: a distant, mountainous country, looking menacing in the struggling dawn.
The navigator pulled out his watch.
‘Five o’clock,’ he muttered. ‘Better get a star sight before diving.’
Telling the helmsman to ring the bell if he saw anything, he went below into the control room, where the thump and bang of the engines smothered all other sounds, and through into the fore compartment, treading lightly and dodging under the hammocks and over the sleeping men stretched out on the deck.
Passing through the long green curtains, he stepped into that space dignified by the high-sounding name of ‘Ward Room,’ where Seagraveand Raymond were sleeping, and culling from a drawer his sextant and a watch, returned on deck.
By the time he had taken his sights the dawn was well advanced, and after a careful look round the horizon he once more rang the bell.
‘Call the captain and tell him it’s five-fifteen, please.’
‘Ay, ay, sir.’
Presently Raymond came up and took a long look at the distant coast.
‘Well, young feller,’ he said, lowering his glasses, ‘seen anything?’
‘Not so as you’d notice it,’ replied Boyd. ‘That light only showed up for five minutes or so. I got some sights by the way, as the land’s too far off for decent bearings.’
‘What you’ll suffer from, my lad,’ said Raymond with a grin, ‘is sextantitis if you carry on as you’re doing now. It’s a very common complaint among R.N.R. Lieutenants, and comes from the constant habit of taking sights. The patient rises at one in the morning and tries to find his latitude with a hambone and a piece of string.’
‘Better to be sure than sorry, anyway,’ answered Boyd.
‘Well, you brought it on yourself. If you only knew what an effort it costs me to be funny at this hour in the morning you wouldn’t ask for it. I tell you it completely defeats me. When we get back I shall have to take a course of something, or drink unpleasant mixtures out of green bottles.’
‘If it’s whisky you mean I can quite believeyou,’ returned Boyd, with his legs down the hatch. ‘Well, so she goes. Course fifty-six. Fine weather and no fish.’
‘Give Seagrave a shake when you get below,’ the skipper called after him. ‘Tell him I’m going to dive in ten minutes.’
‘Achchha, Sahib,’ and Boyd vanished below.
Raymond sat down and lit a pipe, keeping a careful look-out over the oily swell of smooth water. Presently he pressed the telegraph switches and the engines stopped.
‘Diving stations!’ he ordered. ‘Shut off for diving! Lower deck control!’
‘Both engine clutches out, sir,’ bellowed a voice from below.
‘Ay, ay,’ returned the skipper, and then turning to thehelmsman,—
‘Down below,’ he added.
The sailor closed the magnetic compass lid and screwed it well home, unshipped the gyro repeater and decamped to continue his task at the steering position in the control room.
Raymond took a final look round, and collecting the spare glasses and all the odd gear about the bridge, clambered down the conning-tower, shutting the lid after him, and screwing the strong back well into position. On the order ‘Diving stations,’ the scene below had become one of ordered confusion. Every man had his own station and duty to perform, both when diving and rising, and by the time Raymond got below all was ready.
Hoskins, the Chief E.R.A., was at the air manifold, ready to let the air out of the smaller tanks and so admit the water.
The L.T.O. and an S.T. stood by to start the motors, while the remainder were closing battery ventilators, giving a final wrench at a hatch batten, and standing by the great vent valves. Forward the T.I.6was fussing over a tube door, while in the engine-room the E.R.A.’s and stokers were saying soothing words to the silent engines.
Over all this Seagrave reigned supreme. This was his ‘pidgeon,’ and he ran his crew of twenty-three with the capability of a veteran in spite of his youthful appearance.
Boyd sat working out his sights. He didn’t come into this part of the business.
‘Shut off for diving, sir,’ came a voice from the engine-room, and ‘All ready, sir,’ from Seagrave.
The captain pressed a small switch and the periscope slid upwards till its lower end was at a comfortable height. He applied his eye to it and looked carefully round.
The voice of the musical stoker filtered in from theengine-room,—
‘Mother takes in wringings-out,So does sister Anne.Everybody works in our boat,But the L.T.O.’
‘Mother takes in wringings-out,So does sister Anne.Everybody works in our boat,But the L.T.O.’
‘Mother takes in wringings-out,So does sister Anne.Everybody works in our boat,But the L.T.O.’
‘Mother takes in wringings-out,
So does sister Anne.
Everybody works in our boat,
But the L.T.O.’
‘You shut yer ’ead,’ came the answer. ‘Pity you ain’t got more to dothan——’
‘Flood 1 and 4,’ ordered Raymond.
‘Open 1 and 4 Kingstons and 1 and 4 main vents!’ shouted Seagrave.
Two stokers wrenched back the Kingston levers, while a couple of seamen reached up and screwed open the vent valves. The coxswain and second coxswains took their stand by the hydroplane and diving rudder wheels.
‘Flood 2.’
‘Open No. 2 Kingston and No. 2 main vent,’ from the ‘Sub.’
A hiss and a spurt of water came from the air manifold, and Hoskins looked over his shoulder as he worked at the spindles.
‘1 and 4 full, sir,’ he reported.
A slight cant forward could now be felt in the boat as the tanks filled and she settled down in the water.
‘How is she, coxswain?’ asked Raymond with his eye still at the periscope.
‘Three degrees by the head, sir.’
‘Right. Flood 3.’
‘Open No. 3 Kingston and No. 3 main vent. Close 1 and 4 vents!’ cried Seagrave.
‘Vents closed, sir,’ came the reports.
‘2 full, sir,’ said Hoskins. A pause, and then ‘3 full, sir,’ he added.
‘How is she now, coxswain?’ asked the captain again.
‘Two degrees by the stern, sir.’
‘Thank you. Close main vents. Another 500 in the fore trim, Seagrave.’
‘Ay, ay, sir; 500 in the fore-trim,’ repeated the ‘Sub.’
‘Horizontal, sir,’ from the coxswain.
The needle of the depth-gauge trembled, moved slowly, reached four feet and stopped.
‘Four feet,’ announced Seagrave.
‘That’ll do,’ replied Raymond. ‘10,000 in the auxiliary and flood the buoyancy.’
The depth-needle shivered and crept on to ‘fifteen.’
‘How is she?’ asked the captain again.
‘Horizontal, sir, fifteen feet,’ replied the coxswain.
‘Start the motors. Full fields,’ ordered Raymond. ‘Thirty feet. Take her down.’
The two coxswains spun their wheels forward with eyes glued on the depth-gauge.
The needle moved slowly on. Twenty, twenty-five, twenty-seven feet, it recorded. They were whirling their wheels aft now to check her from going too deep.
Thirty feet, thirty-two, thirty-four the metre registered, and then slowly the needle swung back a little and stopped.
‘Thirty feet, sir,’ said the coxswain.
‘Right. Crack the vents and let me know if she gets heavy,’ replied the captain, lowering the periscope. ‘Finished diving stations.’
‘Everybody works in our boatBut the L.T.O.’
‘Everybody works in our boatBut the L.T.O.’
‘Everybody works in our boatBut the L.T.O.’
‘Everybody works in our boat
But the L.T.O.’
floated forward again.
Raymond smiled as he watched the men leaving their posts. A humorist in a boat is worth his weight in gold.
The crew dispersed about their various jobs, some to continue their watch in the engine-room or at the wheels, while the watch below turned in their hammocks or stretched out on deck, leaving a courteous gangway to the curtained-off space, anywhere they could find room for a blanket and pillow.
The second coxswain set the diving rudders, spat on his hands, bit off a chunk of tobacco, and retired aft. She would do now, and the coxswain alone could keep her at her depth with the hydroplanes, the great horizontal rudders at the fore-end of the boat that steered her up or down in the same manner as an ordinary vertical rudder steers a surface ship to left or right.
Raymond spent a few minutes satisfying himself that all was well and the helmsman on his course, and then stepped through into the fore-compartment and looked at the chart.
Seagrave and Boyd had both turned in, and in the ‘Ward Room’ it seemed strangely silent. When on the surface the thump and bang of the Diesels filled the boat, and down below one could always hear the water lapping over the superstructure,and feel the vibration and general sense of resistance and energy. But now she was submerged there was an intense stillness, a sort of dead stillness, and only the faint hum of the motors indicated that she was under weigh. There was no motion, no vibration, and no feeling of strain or energy. She might have been at anchor in harbour, except that the hatches were closed and the steering chain rattled now and again.
At one moment noise and rushing water, the next, ‘Diving stations!’ a clang, a hiss or two, and ... silence.
The men’s voices drifted in from the after-compartment, and the clatter of knives and forks indicated that the cook was getting breakfast ready.
After a while Raymond went back to the control room, inhabited now by only the coxswain and helmsman.
‘Eighteen feet,’ he said.
The coxswain spun his wheel until the depth-needles steadied once more.
‘Eighteen feet, sir,’ he announced.
At this depth the lowered periscope was just below the surface of the water and still invisible from above. The captain pressed the switch and it slid up to its required height, bringing its upper lens about three feet above the surface, a thin brass cylinder being all that was apparent to any hostile craft.
With his eye to the lens at the lower end,Raymond obtained a view much like that seen through ordinary binoculars.
As he turned the instrument round he could see the horizon and the wake of the periscope lying astern in creamy bubbles, then the enemy coast about twenty miles away filling the whole of his view to the eastward, then a glimpse of his own hydroplanes, again the horizon and the circle was complete.
Nothing in sight. He lowered the periscope, and giving the order ‘thirty feet,’ returned to the fore-compartment and sat down by the chart-table with a magazine.
Every ten minutes he went back to the control room, the boat rose to eighteen feet, the periscope was hoisted, and he took his careful survey. Then down to the patrolling depth again and back he went to the silent ‘Ward Room’ to glance at the chart or anything that would pass the time.
Towards eight o’clock, the cook came forward to ask Raymond what time he wanted breakfast.
‘Now,’ answered the skipper laconically, picking up the dividers and sticking them into Seagrave’s leg, as the cook departed.
The sleeper grunted and turned over.
‘Wake up, young feller,’ said Raymond. ‘Don’t you want any breakfast?’
The ‘Sub.’ sat up and rubbed his eyes.
‘Oh, Lord!’ he groaned. ‘Why can’t you leave a chap alone?’
‘Come on now; it’s good for children, invalids,and the aged. Shake a leg and let’s get that table out.’
Seagrave staggered over to the folding basin.
‘As usual,’ he grumbled, ‘no bally water now, and I can’t see out of my eyes till I’ve had a wash.’
‘My goodness, you do look a picture of a promising young officer,’ grinned Raymond, ‘and let me tell you, you wash far too often. None of the really classy people in submarines ever wash. When I was up the Marmora I didn’t wash for a month.’
‘Nor since, either, I should imagine,’ retorted Seagrave.
‘This flippancy in one of tender years is very galling. You don’t follow my august example. Look at Boyd, for instance. Gets out of his bunk as if he were going to be Queen of the May.’
Between them they pushed in the lower bunk and hauled out a table flap, on which the meal was laid by the cook, who bore in the eggs and sausages with the air of one who has achieved a culinary triumph.
‘Just look at those sausages,’ said Seagrave sitting down. ‘They look as if they’d spent their palmier days on a cab rank.’
‘You’ve been spoilt,’ replied the skipper. ‘You’ve been brought up on Service bangers, and now you think that our best Vienna sausages, provided by me at great personal expense, are beneath you.’
‘I’d have been glad enough to see any sort of sausages when I was apprentice in a wind-jammer,’put in Boyd. ‘Cracker hash was what we got. However, I don’t blame you. If I felt like you look, I don’t think Icouldeat a fried egg.’
‘A most appalling example of a youthful officer on his way to the bow-wows,’ put in Raymond. ‘Eighteen feet.’
The meal over, Seagrave went aft to look at his beloved motors and engines, while the captain and navigator consulted the chart.
‘Near enough to the land, I think,’ said Raymond; ‘we don’t know exactly where their minefields are. We’ll steer an opposite course till noon.’
‘Very good, sir. Steer 236 deg., helmsman.’
‘236 deg., sir,’ came the reply as the wheel went over, and a littlelater,—
‘Course, sir?’
‘All “Sir Garnet” in the engine-room,’ announced Seagrave, returning from his tour of inspection. ‘The batteries are still up to twelve twenty-five.’
Raymond nodded approval.
‘That’s the sort. Hard-working ‘Subs’ of boats a pace forward, march! One of our world’s workers, but died before attaining maturity. All the same this new battery of ours seems pretty good.’
‘What always scares me,’ returned the other, ‘is shutting down the ventilators for diving. I know I shall forget it some day, and then we’ll have chlorine gas in the boat and be as cold ashaddocks in about five minutes, like those poor beggars in “164.”’
‘The day you feel that coming on, you want to let me know. Suicidal mania is not one of my deficiencies. You let me know beforehand and I’ll have you hanged, drawn, and quartered, and bits of you hung round the superstructure as a warning to others of the awful fate of ‘Subs’ who feel the first symptoms of incipient lunacy approaching.’
‘What was it happened to “159” last trip, by the way?’ put in Boyd.
‘Oh, it wasn’t much,’ replied Raymond. ‘“Snatcher” told me about it. They were having tea at about thirty feet when they heard a rumbling stunt. He took her down to eighty feet and stopped there till he had recovered from the fit of nervous prostration into which he had been thrown. Then he went down to a hundred and twenty, took the opportunity of going round and seeing if the boat was right at that depth. When he was satisfied he came up and kept her at forty-five for the rest of the patrol.’
‘What was it?’ queried Seagrave.
‘Seaplane bomb dropped from right above, and only just missed ’em. It was a smooth day, and the pilot must have been able to see the boat easily. The joke was that the stoker P.O., who was off watch at the time, was asleep, with his head against the skin of the hull, and when the bomb went off, the vibration of the boat’s side gave hima lump on the back of the chump as big as an ostrich egg.’
‘Interesting and instructive experience,’ remarked Boyd. ‘Honest Herbert harried by the Hun! That’s the reason there wasn’t any gin in the boat yesterday. The shock to the nerves must have been too much for them.
‘Let the Hun pass,Though he’s an ass.I warrant he’ll prove an excuse for the glass.’
‘Let the Hun pass,Though he’s an ass.I warrant he’ll prove an excuse for the glass.’
‘Let the Hun pass,Though he’s an ass.I warrant he’ll prove an excuse for the glass.’
‘Let the Hun pass,
Though he’s an ass.
I warrant he’ll prove an excuse for the glass.’
‘Yes,’ said Seagrave, ‘I heard “Bunty” trying to cadge a bottle off the mess-man before we left. But it wasn’t any good. He pleaded that they might meet a “U” boat this time, and that after they’d finished her off they wouldn’t have anything to celebrate the event in. Then he tried strategy, and told the mess-man that he was positive all the German boats were well supplied, on the off-chance of strafing one of our “E” boats.’
‘What did the mess-man say?’
‘Said “U” stood for ’Un and “E” for England, and handed him his mess bill, plus extras,’ said Seagrave, hoisting himself into the upper bunk.
‘Now, just watch me,’ grinned Boyd, pushing back the table, ‘in my wonderful impersonation of shut-eye Joe, the modern sleeping beauty. Warranted to sleep until the next meal, or, failing that, till Fritz shows us his world-famous tip-and-runstunt. Bye-bye, good people. Call me when she swings.’
Raymond was taking the periscope watch himself, as the others were fully employed on watch-keeping and other duties when on the surface. The morning dragged slowly away without incident, and the land was getting distant now and was barely visible by about eleven o’clock.
It was very still and peaceful once more, and the two off-watch slept the sleep of the just. Occasionally a man passed forward outside the curtains on his way to the lockers, or the sound of voices drifted in from the after compartment. Only the sunlight, visible on the water through the periscope, indicated that it was broad daylight.
Once an electric bell broke the stillness with a persistent clanging which caused Boyd to leap from his bunk and rush off muttering imprecations on the gyro compass. The bell stopped, and presently he reappeared.
Raymond looked an inquiry.
‘Only the Count,’ explained the other. ‘That blessed twenty volt generator cut-out plays tricks every now and again,’ and he relapsed into slumber once more.
He was up again at eleven o’clock, however, and telling Raymond that the sun would cross the meridian at a quarter past.
The captain shook his head sadly.
‘It’s no good,’ he groaned. ‘I’ve done my best for you and you don’t get any better. I shallhave to humour you or you may become dangerous. However, I’ll see what can be done,’ and he went to the periscope with the air of a doctor who knows the case is hopeless.
‘All right,’ he called from the control room. ‘We’ll rise for it. Too far off the land for bearings. Wake Seagrave. Diving stations!’
Once more the men stood at their posts, and the captain kept his eye at the periscope, while Seagrave superintended and Boyd stood by with his sextant ready.
‘Blow 2 and 3,’ came the order.
‘Open 2 and 3 Kingstons,’ cried Seagrave.
The levers were drawn back and there was a faint jar and a rush of compressed air as Hoskins opened the blows and the water was forced out of the tanks.
The depth-needle came slowly back to four feet and remained steady.
‘2 and 3 out, sir,’ said Hoskins.
The captain left the periscope and went up the dark shaft of the conning-tower hatch. Very gingerly he eased the strongback, and there was a rush of escaping air as the pressure was released from the boat.
Seagrave had his eye on the barometer, which had swung round while diving to ‘off the map,’ and was now rapidly decreasing to the external pressure.
‘One inch!’ he shouted up the hatch. ‘Equal!’
The men could feel the change in the atmosphereby a tickling sensation in the ears, much like having a drop of water in them. Raymond threw open the hatch and stepped out, followed by Boyd.
Up here the sunlight struck sharply on the eyes. In this trim the boat was half submerged and looked like some water-logged hulk wallowing on the surface. She dripped at every pore, and the calm sea washed sluggishly over her superstructure.
Three minutes later the sun crossed, and they were down again, Raymond closing the hatch behind him as he descended.
‘Flood main ballast,’ he ordered.
Once more the tanks filled, the Kingstons were closed, and in less than sixty seconds she was down to thirty feet again.
Ten minutes had sufficed for the whole business.
‘You’re getting a bit thick, Boyd,’ grumbled the ‘Sub’ as they went back to the Ward Room. ‘I can’t get any sleep at all nowadays, what with your confounded sights and the skipper’s blooming energy. Last trip I was just caulking the bunk good-oh when Raymond started a field-day of pasting notices into the pilots. He said the paste wouldn’t stick the things unless there was a weight on them, and shoved the whole lot under me in the bunk. I ought to get extra pay for that sort of thing.’
‘Now, now, you mustn’t get in a state, dearie,’ replied Boyd. ‘Too much work is making you peevish. Here’s lunch. Just try to pick a bitof chicken, cold one, and you’ll rise from the table like a lion refreshed.’
‘At one time,’ said Raymond, sitting down, ‘we didn’t get much at sea, but in these new boats I always look forward to the trip on account of the change of grub.’
‘And yet we growl,’ put in Boyd. ‘I never met any one at sea yet who hadn’t a moan about the food.’
The meal was eaten in shirt sleeves, as the boat was getting rather hot now that the sun was well up, and after the fruit and custard had disappeared Raymond leant back with a yawn.
‘Pity we can’t smoke,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling damn tired. You keep a watch on the “perisher”7this afternoon, Seagrave.’
‘All right. Turn in and trust me to let you know if we bump a “mouldy.”8I won’t forget.’
In the after compartment the mess tables were down and the men were getting outside their meal seated on stools, the deck, or anything that came to hand. The gyro buzzed on one side of them, and the rattle of the steering-gear formed an accompaniment, which, however, did not seem to upset their appetites. Young men mostly, with here and there a grizzled petty officer for leavening, they moved about with that deftness which men acquire who are accustomed to live in confined spaces.
By-and-by, Seagrave went up the control roomshaft and unscrewed one of the brass ports, disclosing a small circle of thick glass. Through this the water could be seen looking intensely blue, while on glancing up he could see the surface thirty feet above, which appeared like a blue ceiling or a large sheet stretched over the boat.
Occasionally the under side of a piece of driftwood could be seen floating on the surface and the fore-deck, and the gun stood out sharply defined.
The atmosphere was bad up here, as all the foul air drifted upwards, and Seagrave soon screwed back the post and returned to his book in the fore compartment.
Every ten minutes came the monotonous order, ‘Eighteen feet,’ the periscope was hoisted and lowered, and the boat descended to the thirty-foot level.
Nearly every one was asleep, the heavy atmosphere making them drowsy, and it was very quiet and peaceful, when the second coxswain, who was at the hydroplanes, called outsharply,—
‘Getting ’eavy, sir! I can’t ’ol ’er up!’
Now, no submarine can descend to an unlimited depth, because the external pressure becomes too great, and below two hundred feet or so they are liable to crush and flatten in like pancakes. Also if she begins to leak owing to excessive depth, water may get to the batteries, whereupon chlorine gas will form and suffocate all hands. Therefore a decent haste is necessary if at any time, owingto an increase of water in the bilges, the boat becomes heavy and has what is known as ‘negative buoyancy.’
Raymond and Seagrave hurried into the control room, the captain giving his orders as he came.
‘Start the pump on the auxiliary. Speed up to 500 on the motors.’
The purr of the motors increased, and the adjusting pump added its clack to the subdued noises.
Raymond hoped that the extra speed by giving her more steerage-weigh, and with the hydroplanes ‘hard-a-rise,’ would bring her up without the tedious necessity of blowing main ballast.
She was going down fast, however. Forty, fifty, sixty, seventy feet the depth-gauge recorded. At seventy-five feet she stopped.
‘Stand by the hatches,’ cried Seagrave. ‘Report any leak at once.’
She rose slowly and Raymond stopped the pump. The coxswain twirled his wheel, and she was bringing up at thirty feet when an avalanche of water came down the conning-tower hatch.
The captain sprang for the ladder through the mass of water and disappeared up the shaft. The flow decreased and stopped, and he reappeared drenched to the skin.
Everybody got very busy suddenly. Nobody seemed to wish to be unduly noticed, and all showed a strange eagerness for work of any sort. The coxswain winked at the helmsman, and thatworthy leant towards the compass with a fixed stare.
‘These ruddy hatches!’ bellowed Raymond. ‘The damned thing came open, and I’ve only got one shirt in the boat.’
‘Here, messenger,’ he added, pulling it off, ‘take this into the engine-room and get it dried. No water in the battery, is there, Seagrave?’
‘No, sir,’ replied the ‘Sub’ with a stony countenance. ‘That’s the best of these high coamings, and we’ve got the rubber deck-cloth screwed well down. The batteries are all right.’
‘Well, that’s a bit of luck, anyway. And now, after that lot, another little drink wouldn’t do us any harm. But don’t wake Boyd, as we haven’t much whisky left.’
The pressure in the boat had slightly lifted the hatch on the catch slipping its socket. Otherwise, owing to the weight of thirty feet of water, it could never have admitted the slightest drop.
‘All’s well that ends well,’ said Raymond, as he raised his glass, ‘but that water coming in like that certainly shook me. I didn’t think there was so much pressure in the boat.’
‘It shook me far more to see you looking like a drowned rat when you came down. This is what is known ashore as “Seeing Life.”’
‘You keep a look-out with that “perisher,” my boy, and don’t worry about me. You’ve got a shirt to wear, and I haven’t, unless it’s dry before we rise.’
Presently they relapsed into silence, and Raymond dropped off to sleep again, while the ‘Sub’ carried on with the watch.
At four o’clock tea put in an appearance, after which Boyd took his turn at the periscope watch, while the others sat reading.
The wind had been increasing since noon, and the sea was getting up. Looking through the periscope his view was often obscured by the waves, and occasionally they broke right over, shutting out the scene as if a light blue curtain had been flung over the eyes and torn away again.
Even at thirty feet the boat began to roll, and when suddenly a bump was heard forward and a rattle the whole length of the boat, Raymond jumped from his chair, brought her quickly up and glanced ahead.
However, there was nothing to be seen, and he lowered the periscope, the boat descending to the patrol level again.
‘What was it?’ asked Seagrave.
The other shook his head. ‘Don’t know. One of the mysteries of the deep. Perhaps a mine that didn’t go off. Anyhow you can say so in your letters home. I heard that noise three times in an afternoon when I was in “85” last year. You never can say for certain that it’s not the moorings of a mine, so it’s always best to be on the look-out if you hear that sort of row. I don’t like them knocking to be let in in that way. It’s too forward of them altogether.’
‘I saw that “U” boat we recovered the other day when I was on leave,’ said Boyd. ‘She struck a mine end on. Great Scott! she was a sight. The whole bow-cap was blown right off, and they found the bodies of the crew in her when they got her up. Poor beggars. They’d grouped up and put the hydroplanes hard-a-rise before they were snuffed out.’
‘Yes,’ remarked Raymond. ‘I can’t say that it gives me any particular pleasure to think of a crowd of Germans in a submarine striking a mine. It brings it too much home to one, as it were, and, after all, they’re obeying orders in the same way as we are.’
‘It must seem funny,’ said Seagrave. ‘One minute sitting here reading, and the next, the fore-end blown off and a wall of water flopping in on you. I don’t expect you’d know much about it, though.’
‘I say, you fellows,’ cried Boyd, coming in from the control room. ‘There’s a hell of a sea getting up. We’re in for a wet night. Sea-boots and oilskins for mine.’
‘My usual luck,’ said Raymond, fishing in a drawer. ‘I always get it rough on the way home. Who’s the Jonah?’
‘I don’t know. Some beggar who hasn’t paid for his washing, I suppose. But we’re certainly going to get it in the neck.’ The rolling of the boat at this depth and the gurgling of the water in the vent pipes was a sufficient warning of thestate of the weather, and they set to work lashing all portable gear in place and preparing for the expected wetting on coming to the surface.
‘We’d better have dinner before we rise, hadn’t we?’ asked Boyd, struggling into a pair of oilskin trousers. ‘Everything will be all over the shop, and I’ve got some pretty good soup on hand to-night. Main drain loungers and water.’
‘Yes. Six-thirty will do,’ replied the captain, ‘and we’ll rise at seven. You might see about it, Seagrave.’
The ‘Sub’ departed to the engine-room to confer with his chief minion, and Raymond turned to the navigator.
‘We’ll put her on the course for home now, I think. We’re only about fifteen miles off Fritz’s coast as it is, and we shan’t make much against this.
‘All right. It’s just on half-past six now. I’ll set the course and then shake dinner up.’
In the engine-room the E.R.A.’s were bustling round the engines, and in the middle of dinner the report came forward, ‘Engines ready, sir.’ The atmosphere was getting fuggy, and everything seemed sticky, though there was no difficulty in breathing yet.
‘We’re certainly in for it,’ said Raymond. ‘We shan’t get home before daylight, and I shall let her go slowly most of the time if it’s too bad. Now then, ten to seven; shake it up with that cheese, Boyd, and let’s get busy.’
A messenger appeared holding a bundle in his hand, which he offered to the captain.
‘What the devil’s that thing?’ demanded Raymond. ‘Take it away. I don’t want your dish swabs here.’
‘It’s your shirt, sir,’ replied the youth, without a smile.
‘That nasty looking thing?’ replied the skipper, seizing it and holding it at arm’s length. ‘Just look at the straits I am reduced to. However, it’s better than this prickly lammy coat I’ve been wearing.’
‘Seven o’clock, sir,’ said Seagrave, looking at his watch.
‘Right. Diving stations!’ ordered Raymond, struggling into the garment as he hoisted the periscope. ‘Blow 1, 2, and 3 main ballast. Pump three thousand out of the auxiliary.’
‘Start the pump on the auxiliary. Open 1, 2, and 3 Kingstons,’ shouted the ‘Sub.’
Up she came, the depth-needle hurrying back to zero. She was in surface trim now, and, carefully opening the hatch, Raymond, Boyd, and the helmsman, clad in oilskins and sea-boots, clambered on deck, the latter carrying the Sperry repeater.
‘One,’ shouted the captain down the hatch, as a great spout of white water showed forward. Then later, ‘two ... three. Upper deck control. Open the vents!’
The tanks were out and the air was churning up the sea outside.
Hoskins shut off the blows, and at Seagrave’s orders all vents and Kingstons were closed.
‘Engines!’ bellowed Raymond, ‘two fifty revs.’
With a fizz and a bang they were off, the smell of the petrol on starting pervading the bridge in spite of the strong wind.
It was a dirty night. Even a fair-sized vessel would have felt it, and to ‘123’ the sea was dangerously heavy.
The sun had just set, the sky was overcast, and rain was beginning to fall. The north-westerly wind was still increasing in force and raising a sea that caught them just before the beam.
Night fell, bringing pitch darkness and torrents of rain in its wake. The sea was quite steep now, but the wind was steady. Great rollers came out of the darkness, hit the submarine’s starboard side, broke over her in a deluge of spray, and vanished again to leeward.
The superstructure was hardly ever out of water, and now and again a sea swept right over the conning-tower, drenching to the skin the unfortunate men who were hanging on for dear life.
About nine o’clock Raymond eased her down to two hundred revs.
‘She’s not doing much,’ he said, turning to Boyd; ‘not more than about four knots. Can’t afford to smash things up. We’d better get right home, and in this sea we shan’t be there before daylight. Tell Seagrave to call me at four o’clock. He’s got a charge on of five hundred in series, andthey’re getting the air up as well. He’ll see to that in the middle watch, though.’
He went below, letting the conning-tower hatch fall behind him, but not quite closing it (for the greedy engines needed air to run on), and prepared to lie down on his bunk.
Down below a sorry spectacle met his eyes. The beam sea was causing the boat to roll very heavily, and it was impossible to stand upright without holding on to something. Not the roll of a liner this, nor yet of a destroyer, but more the motion of a quickly-moving pendulum. Right over to port she would roll and then, without an instant’s pause, as far over the other way, bringing down a cloud of books and all sorts of gear that had not been properly lashed up.
Whenever a big sea washed clean over her, showers of spray would come down through the small opening in the conning-tower hatch, and once the chest of drawers took charge and slid over on a man who was attempting to sleep on deck.
Seagrave and Raymond were nearly rolled out of their bunks, and the racing of the screws caused an added vibration. Men in wet oilskins relieved from the wheel came below dripping, and everything began to get thoroughly damp and soggy.
At midnight Seagrave went up to the bridge. On first clambering out of the hatch it seemed as if he were entering a very inferno. Boyd, drenched to the skin, turned over the watch to him andhurried below, leaving him alone with the helmsman.
It was still pitch dark and blowing very hard. The rain was pouring down, and she was shipping it green fore and aft, but by-and-by he became more accustomed to it and began to wait for the big ones and dodge them instinctively; however, it was rather a nerve-wracking night, and he hailed with great joy the first glimpse of dawn and with it a moderation of wind and sea.
When Raymond came up at four o’clock, the weather was decreasing; the wind was still fresh, but the sea had gone down, and the boat was running more easily.
Seagrave wasted no time in getting below. He inspected the batteries, took the densities, and was between the blankets in less than ten minutes.
As the light gained strength, Raymond could just make out the faint outline of home, and the sea moderated as they approached the shelter of the bay to the northward.
He increased speed, and by seven-thirty they were in smooth water and only ten miles off the harbour.
Boyd clambered up to the bridge to assist Raymond to take her in, while Seagrave buzzed round the motors and saw all in readiness for entering port.
Nearly all the crew who were not on watch were up on deck; crowded on the conning-tower, round the gun, anywhere where they could keep a safefooting against the now gentle roll and get a breath of fresh air after the trials and stuffy atmosphere of the night below.
Up the hatch came the voice of the cheerful stoker impressing on the signalman that ‘he didn’t want to lose him, but he thought he ought to go,’ as the latter struggled up with his arms full of flags, and, bending on a couple, hoisted them to the yard-arm of the telescopic mast.
‘Entrance signal up, sir,’ he reported.
‘All right,’ said Raymond. ‘What’s that on the starboard bow?’
The signalman clapped his glass to his eye and sucked his teeth.
‘British submarine, sir, approaching the harbour from the northward. I think it’s “159,” sir. She seems to be keeping level.’
Raymond jerked the bell.
‘Three fifty revs!’ he shouted down the hatch. ‘We’ll show her what we can do now. We’ll make Snatcher look old-fashioned.’
The boat jumped ahead, but although the two submarines were on courses converging to the harbour mouth, she showed no signs of gaining on the wily ‘159.’
Raymond frowned. Then he rang the bell again andsaid,—
‘Ask the chief E.R.A. to speak to me, please.’
Presently Hoskins appeared, accompanied by his eternal dirty face, cheerful grin, and lump of oily waste.
‘Sir?’ he queried.
Raymond didn’t speak. He merely pointed to the offending craft on the starboard beam.
A light of comprehension dawned on the artificer’s face. His grin broadened and he fled below.
Twenty minutes later ‘123’ shot through the harbour-gate a good quarter of a mile ahead of her adversary, and as she passed the piers the captain gave the order ‘harbour stations.’
The coxswain took the helm. It was his prerogative, and entering or leaving port none but he was entrusted with the wheel.
The remainder of the crew who could be spared from below fell in and stood at ease on the superstructure, both forward and abaft the conning-tower, under the orders of Seagrave.
As they passed the first of the big ships lying at anchor, the ‘Sub’ gave a sharp order, and the men came to attention facing towards her, and as the quarter deck drew abeam, Raymond raised his hand in a salute which was answered from the battleship by the officer on the watch.
‘’Bout turn!’ ordered Seagrave, as they passed the next ship, and once more salutes were exchanged.
By now ‘123’ was well up the bay, and theParentiswas visible as the boat threaded her way through the crowded harbour.
‘Finished harbour stations,’ ordered Raymond. ‘Stand by to go alongside.’
Then down the conning-towerhatch,—
‘Motors, group down! Three hundred!’
‘Both engine clutches out, sir,’ came the reply. ‘Three ’undred, sir.’
The exhaust wavered and died away; there was a pause, and then the faint churning aft indicated that the screws were being turned by the electric motors, which were taking three hundred amperes.
With perfect judgment Raymond manœuvred her astern of theParentis, and ‘123’ slid alongside with barely a foot’s clearance.
As she slidby,—
‘Stop both!’ rapped the captain. ‘Group up! Astern both!’
The water bore aft as the propellers checked her way. Heaving lines were thrown fore and aft, ‘123’ thought about it, shuddered, and stopped dead alongside.
‘Stop both. Finished with motors. Make fast fore and aft,’ called Raymond. ‘Is the “Sperry” stopped, Boyd?’
‘Yes, sir. I stopped her when we got on the bearing,’ replied the navigator.
‘Right-oh. Come on the pair of you. Time for a gin and bitters.’
‘Clear up below, coxswain,’ cried Seagrave, as the gang plank went out; and five minutes later the three officers of H.M. Submarine ‘123’ were in theParentis’sward room clamouring at the top of their voices for gin, bitters, and baths.