Derek Daventry's arrival at Sableridge Marine Depot could hardly be described as imposing. It might have been picturesque, or at least bizarre.
Upon alighting at Fisherton Station he learnt on enquiry that Sableridge was a good six miles by road, lying, as it did, at the entrance to the extensive Fisherton Harbour. He waited for some time at the railway station in the hope that one of the R.A.F. motor-transport vehicles might put in an appearance. Thwarted in that direction, he tried in vain for a taxi or even a "growler". Finally he bargained with a sleepy youth in charge of a very ramshackle wagonette, who, in consideration of a pecuniary largess of ten shillings, condescended to drive the newly-joining officer to Sableridge.
At a leisurely six miles an hour the wagonette set out on its journey. Apart from the slow pace and the atrocious jolting, Derek enjoyed the ride. Compared with the devastated fields and villages of France the prospect looked entrancingly peaceful as the road wound round the eastern side of the harbour. The tide was in. There was little or no wind, so that the water had the appearance of a vast lake, studded with islands, and backed by numerous hills that culminated in a bold down of a height of six hundred feet or more.
Then a rise in the road brought him in sight of Sableridge, a long peninsula of what appeared to be hummocks of drifting sand clothed in places with coarse tufted grass. Almost every hillock bore an architecturally picturesque house, while the red-tiled roofs of others were visible in the hollows between the dunes. At the far end, where the waters of Fisherton Harbour rush in at the rate of five knots to meet the waters of the English Channel, was a large white building. At no very distant date it had been a popular hotel; now, as the White Ensign floating from the gaff of a tall flagstaff indicated, it was a Government building—the Marine Depot of the R.A.F.
Having reported, Derek was shown his quarters—a large, airy room on the first floor with a balcony from which views of the greater part of Fisherton Harbour could be obtained. This room, he found, he had to share with another lieutenant.
Save for the latter's personal belongings, it was as bare as Mother Hubbard's cupboard, the officers being in unfurnished quarters, for which they drew the sum of half a crown a day.
His batman, having deposited Derek's kit-bag on the floor, enquired whether he was to fetch the new arrival's equipment from the station; to which Daventry had to reply that there was no more forthcoming at present.
Left to himself, Derek took stock of his surroundings. The room required but little attention, but the view without was enthralling. It was during working hours. Motor-boats of all types and speeds were running to and fro. "Skimmers", credited with a speed of fifty knots, and "hydro-glisseurs", weird-looking contraptions consisting of six floats lashed in pairs and driven by an aerial propeller, formed part of the R.A.F. flotilla; while, in acute contrast to the mosquito-like craft, there were two "drifters" lying at moorings and a third slowly "chugging" her way against the tide. These craft, like their more select sisters, bore the distinctive red, white, and blue circles of the R. A. F.
Just beyond a little pier lay the "guard-ship", a subsidized coaster, painted grey, and provided with a towering superstructure. She, too, flew the White Ensign in her rôle of guardian of the port.
Then, in contrast to the war-time conditions, were the square-sterned fishing-boats, mostly painted white and carrying tanned sails. Good, wholesome, weatherly boats they were, manned by greybeards and youths, who "carried on" while their respective sons and fathers were patrolling in armed merchant-cruisers and drifters to frustrate Fritz's knavish tricks.
"In peace-time I should be paying three or four guineas a week for this room," thought Derek. "Now I'm being paid to occupy it, and am about to have sea trips free, gratis, and for nothing. This is some stunt."
At tea Derek was introduced to his new comrades. There were eleven officers belonging to the permanent staff and fifteen others under instruction. The latter were for the most part youngsters in point of age, many of them joining up direct from school, but veterans in point of war service. Most of them had been flying in the old R.N.A.S. and R.F.C., and their joint record covered every battlefront from Heligoland Bight to German West Africa, and from Mesopotamia to beyond the Scillies—pilots who had faced death a hundred times and had cheated the grim messenger by crashing and surviving. And now they had exchanged the joy-stick for the wheel of a motor-launch and the zest of flying for the equally exhilarating lift of the ocean.
The meal over, the crowd of junior officers adjourned to the shore—the tide being low and the moon full—to play sand-cricket and rounders until it was time to change for mess. The meal over, there was a "liberty-boat" to the "beach"—the boat consisting of a motor-lorry, while the beach was the term used to denote the neighbouring seaside town of Coombeleigh.
"Ripping fine station!" commented Blair, Derek's room-mate. "I've been in a few stations in my time, but this is the one. By Jove, if things continue as they are going, we'll have a top-hole time! The Colonel? He's one of the best, but I pity the fellow who slacks. Yes, the C.O. expects a high standard, and he'll get it, or there'll be trouble. An' the Major's absolutely 'it': couldn't wish for a better. Of course we aren't in full working order yet. There are only half the number of men here at present, and the majority of 'em are a scratch lot. We've got to lick them into shape as seamen, and it's a tough proposition, I can tell you. Got your bedding yet?"
"No," replied Derek. "I'll have to sleep rough to-night, but it won't be the first time."
"I'll take you to the Stores Officer," continued Blair. "He'll fix you up with bed-boards and some blankets. Give the batman a shout, and tell him to bring the gear along."
In a very short space of time Derek's equipment was augmented by a couple of trestles and three boards. These formed the bed. On that were placed half a dozen blankets and a straw pillow—a Spartan couch, but far better than many he had slept upon in damp and stuffy dug-outs in France.
Hardly had Derek settled his scanty belongings when he was sent for by the C.O. His first official task was to accompany the Colonel and the Major to a large private house adjoining, which had recently been commandeered for officers' quarters. The former occupiers—a lady and her daughter—still remained in possession of a room in the basement.
The Colonel allotted the rooms, Derek's duty being to pin a cardboard strip, bearing the various officers' names, on the doors. He was on the point of completing the work when the late owner spoke to him.
"I quite understand," said she, "that my house is taken over by the Royal Air Force; but would you give my compliments to the Colonel and tell him that I must object to having one of my best rooms turned into a wood and coal store."
Somewhat mystified, Derek asked to be shown the room referred to. He hadn't the faintest recollection of any room being given over as a fuel store.
"Oh, yes, I can show you," rejoined the lady. "Here you are."
She pointed to the door of a large room on the ground floor. On it was written "Lieuts. Woods and Coles".
Admirably concealing his desire to smile Derek explained.
"I am so sorry," replied the evicted tenant apologetically. "I am rather short-sighted. I quite thought it was 'Wood and Coals'."
Punctually at four bells Derek turned in, and, notwithstanding the hardness of his plank-bed, he slept soundly, lulled by the murmur of the surf upon the sand. It was the end of his first day of home service in a new branch. To-morrow he was to start work in earnest as a motor-boat officer of the Royal Air Force.
For the next few days the work of turning chaos into order and knocking raw material into fairly smart crews proceeded apace. Patience and energy overcame difficulties, and although there were many ludicrous displays afloat, "George Robey's Marines", as they were dubbed by the Fisherton seafolk, managed to make considerable headway without any serious accident.
The crew told off under Derek's orders were a mixed lot. One was a solicitor, another a master from a public school, numbers three and four were bank clerks, while the fifth was a Lancashire coal-miner. Once having overcome the tendency to refer to the boat as "it", and to the bows as the "pointed end", they began to get into shape. Mornings they spent in lecture-rooms ashore, listening to and trying to master the theory of compass-work, knots and splices, and the use of the lead-line. This instruction was varied by lessons in signalling, the intricacies of the Naval and International Codes, semaphore and Morse being patiently explained by the Signalling Instructor—a hard-working individual whose soul appeared to be wrapped up in bunting from the eight a.m. parade to five and after seven-thirty in the evening.
In the afternoon the classes went afloat, while those who had been in the boats during the morning were told off for instruction on shore. Altogether it was a case of long hours and diligent application, and to their credit the men rose nobly to the occasion.
It was a proud day for Derek when for the first time he took his boat across the bar and out to the open sea. His command, from the stern of which the White Ensign floated grandly in the breeze, was a half-decked motor-craft of thirty-five feet in length. The engine was completely under cover, being placed well for'ard. Abaft the half-deck was an open well, fitted with a canvas "dodger", that afforded slight protection from wind and spray. Here were stationed the coxswain and the engineer, while usually the officer in charge would take up his post by the coxswain. Abaft the well was a fairly spacious cock-pit, provided with a folding awning that in heavy weather afforded complete protection from rain and spray. "All out", the boat was capable of doing seventeen knots, although it was customary to run her at only half throttle.
"Let go, for'ard! Cast off!"
"All clear, sir!"
"Easy ahead!"
With a gentle motion the motor-boat glided away from the pier on her first run under Lieutenant Derek Daventry's command, then, gathering speed, headed down the buoyed channel towards the distant Bar Buoy, while Derek, with frequent references to a chart, stood by the none-too-competent coxswain.
It was no use denying that Derek fully realized his position. His sensations were somewhat akin to those on the occasion of his first solo flight, but with this difference. Then he was responsible for himself alone. If an accident had occurred through his inexperience or error it was he alone who would have suffered. Now he was directly responsible for the safety of five men with practically no experience of the ways of the sea, who looked to him implicitly, took their orders from him, and, in short, placed their lives in his hands. Added to this was the fact that he was answerable for the safety of the boat—a practically brand-new craft that had cost the nation a sum closely approaching £2000.
To port and starboard of the narrow channel were dangerous, unobtrusive sandbanks, studded with concealed ledges of rock, their presence indifferently marked by the milk-white rollers that lashed themselves in impotent fury upon the shoals. A slight error of judgment, a wrong turn of the helm, and the frail cockle-shell would almost certainly run aground, and be dashed to pieces in the breakers.
Derek quickly found that R.A.F. 1164 B—that being the official designation of his command—was decidedly wet. Her long, lean bows, and the weight of her engines being well for'ard, tended to make her shove her nose into it. Showers of icy spray flew inboard, enveloping the occupants of the steering-well, and making them duck their heads as they gasped for breath. Well it was that Derek and his crew were well equipped with oilskins and sea-boots; even thus protected moisture found its way down their necks, soaking chillily against their chests and backs.
Nevertheless it was wildly exhilarating. The rapid pulsations of the powerful motor, the rhythmic lift of the long, lean hull to the waves, the hiss and the sting of the flying spindrift, and the unwonted sensation of speed—a sensation not experienced when flying at a height—all combined to give a new zest to life.
And to what purpose? At first sight it was a mere joy-ride, a pleasure-trip in an expensive motor-boat at the cost of the British taxpayer. But it was part of a system of training. Since the amalgamation of the R.F.C. and the R.N.A.S. it was hardly the thing to continue to draw upon the hard-worked navy for sea-going craft to attend upon the rapidly-increasing fleet of coastal airships and sea-planes. And since the aerial-fleet is liable to accident, it is also advisable to have assistance promptly and efficiently. Hence the necessity for the formation of an auxiliary marine branch of the R.A.F., so that in the event of a "Blimp" or a flying-boat being compelled to "land" upon the sea, aid would be quickly forthcoming from the motor-boat about to be attached to the various sea-coast air-stations. And as soon as the officer under training at Sableridge had passed his period of probation in charge of a small craft he would be posted in command of one of those seaworthy vessels known as a "coastal M.L.", on board of which he would live an almost idyllic existence, sleeping and living in one of the most comfortable little ward-rooms imaginable.
At reduced speed M.B. No. 1164 B crossed the bar, wallowing and plunging in the confused cross-seas. But for the protection afforded by the after-canopy she might have fared badly, for green water was slapping viciously against the canvas covering on both quarters. Although wet, she was a good sea-boat, and, beyond a quantity of spray, she passed through her ordeal without shipping any dangerous quantity of water. Then, gathering way, she glided serenely over the long, oily rollers of the open bay.
Derek's orders were to cruise within the limits of Old Tom—a detached chalk pinnacle on the south-western side of Coombeleigh Bay—and Thorbury Head, a bold promontory on the eastern side. Here, with ordinary caution, a boat could come to little harm, the water being fairly deep, and unencumbered with rocks or dangerous currents.
Three or four miles away, and also within the limits of the bay, the Fisherton fleet was at work, the boats running under reduced canvas, with their heavy trawls trailing astern. In the bright sunshine their dark-tan canvas and white hulls made a pleasing picture, the warm colours contrasting vividly with the yellow cliffs and dark-green of the pine-woods fringing the bay. Far out to the southward could be discerned the squat form of a Blimp as it see-sawed five hundred feet above an up-channel tramp steamer—the solitary visible reminder that there was a war on, and that there were such things as U-boats lying in wait for British merchantmen.
For the best part of an hour Derek exercised his crew, practising "man overboard"—the "man" being represented by a life-buoy thrown overboard at an unexpected moment—and also slowing down for the purpose of enabling the individual members of the crew to fix their position on the chart by means of cross-bearings.
Suddenly the dull boom of a gun broke the stillness of the air. Derek, who was bending over the sight-vanes of the compass, raised his head at the familiar sound, although what seemed to be a long time had elapsed since he last heard the report of a quick-firer.
To his astonishment he was just in time to see the masts and sails of one of the fishing-boats disappear over the side, to the accompaniment of a shower of spray and a cloud of smoke from the bursting projectile while less than four hundred yards away from its victim was a large U-boat.
The pirate had evidently been resting on the sandy bottom of the bay, and finding that she was in the vicinity of a fleet of small and unprotected fishing-craft, had judged it a good opportunity for an object-lesson in kultur.
A careful survey of the horizon by means of the periscopes had failed to reveal anything of a suspicious nature to the kapitan-leutnant of the unterseeboot. M.B. No. 1164 B, lying motionless on the water, was an inconspicuous object, her aviation-grey painted sides hardly visible against the haze on the skyline.
The crew of the motor-boat looked enquiringly at their skipper. It never occurred to them that a hostile craft was in the vicinity. Not one of them had seen a U-boat except in the form of a picture in an illustrated paper, and this one did not resemble their idea of a German submarine.
Derek weighed up the case in a few brief seconds. Here he was in a fast motor-boat with a raw, practically untrained crew, and with not so much as a pea-shooter on board. The Hun probably carried a couple of six-inch quick-firers and a few machine-guns. By force Derek could do nothing.
Nor could he, with any degree of honour, seek safety in flight and leave the slowly-moving fishing-boats to the mercy, or rather the lack of mercy, of a ruthless pirate compared with whom the Buccaneers of the Spanish Main were gentlemen.
By stratagem Derek might do something. Unceremoniously pushing aside the still bewildered coxswain, and ordering the engineer to "let her rip for all she's worth", Derek swung the helm hard over until the motor-boat headed straight for the long, low-lying, sinister hull.
"Full throttle!" yelled Daventry. "Lie down, men, all of you."
image: 06_puzzling.jpg[Illustration: SHE PRESENTED A PUZZLING PROPOSITION TO FRITZ]
M.B. No. 1164 B, gathering way, travelled faster than ever she had done since her acceptance trials. Her long, lean bows lifted clean out of the water, while her stern squatted deeply into the trough of her wake, and feathery shafts of spray shot out far and wide of her knife-like stem. Viewed "bows on" she presented a puzzling, nay alarming, proposition to Fritz, whose nerves were already unstrung through the effects of half a dozen narrow squeaks. All he saw was something approaching at terrific speed. He knew that there were mosquito craft that had their stings in their tails, and depth-charges were his great aversion and terror.
Nearer and nearer drew the motor-boat. Derek's resolution increased with every revolution of the propeller. He had started with the idea of "putting the wind up Fritz", but now he meant to hurl the boat bodily at the submarine, and take his chance of being picked up. A 35-foot boat travelling at seventeen knots would by its momentum shatter some of the hull plates of the submarine, but at the same time her bows would crumple up like brown paper.
Once and once only did the Lieutenant turn his head and glance at his crews. For novices they were behaving splendidly, lying stiffly, yet alertly, on the cockpit-gratings, although they could not resist the temptation of looking over the side to "see how things were going". Not a man showed a trace of fear. It was an expression of determination, of really "doing his bit" that showed itself in the knit brows of every member of the crew.
The U-boat made no attempt to do further damage to the fishing-boats. Two men at the quick-firer abaft the conning-tower swung the weapon round and let fly at the elusive target presented by the bows of R.A.F. 1164 B. Derek sawthe flash, and distinctlyheard the screech of the projectile ere it burst four hundred yards astern.
It was the last show. Already the U-boat's nose was dipping. The gunners, abandoning their weapon, bolted precipitately for the after-hatchway. With a resounding clang the water-tight metal cover fell in its appointed place, and the long, unsightly grey hull slithered beneath the waves in a swirl of froth and foam.
With mingled feelings of exultation and relief—exultation because he had scared the Hun into ignominious flight, and relief because he had not been compelled to sacrifice his boat and his men on the altar of duty—Derek put the helm hard-a-port, and, without slowing down, began to circle round the spot where the U-boat had disappeared. How he regretted that R.A.F. 1164 B was not fitted with depth-charges. No doubt, too, the kapitan-leutnant of the submerged craft now noticed the omission, but the chances were that he was too scared to attempt to rise to the surface and engage by gun-fire the interfering little spit-fire. He promptly crawled along a few feet above the bed of the sea—slowly, lest the following wake of the U-boat would betray its presence—until he imagined that he was safe from pursuit.
Meanwhile the fishing-boats were running for port, the dismasted craft in tow, and steered by a venerable greybeard whose silvery locks were bound with a blood-stained handkerchief, while his "mate", otherwise his fourteen-year-old grandson, was nursing a badly-lacerated leg, and thanking his lucky stars that he was not one of Germany's sons.
Having satisfied himself that the fishing-boats were out of danger Derek steered for the harbour. Just as he crossed the bar he saw two coastal airships making seawards.
"That's good!" he remarked to the coxswain. "Those fellows will do some very efficient strafing, unless I'm much mistaken. It hasn't been a bad run, has it?"
"No, sir," agreed the coxswain. "Quite an enjoyable little picnic."
During the initial stages of the life of the R.A.F. Marine Training Depot there was one thing missing. No doubt there were others, but this one, in the eyes of the C.O. and officers, was of great moment. The men would fall in on parade smartly and rapidly; the colours would be hoisted at nine in the morning with éclat; there were sentries posted to pay proper compliments to officers; and a superb gun-metal bell tolled out the hours and half-hours in correct ship's time.
But there was no bugler; nor was there a bugle even if a bugler had been forthcoming. And a bugler capable of blowing a loud-sounding bugle was a desideratum. He would become the coping-stone of the building of efficiency.
The Major did his level best to obtain some Boy Scout buglers from Fisherton, but, false to their precepts, the youngsters were not prepared to use their breath for two shillings a day on behalf of the R.A.F. when they could earn thrice that amount elsewhere.
It looked as if Sableridge Depot would fail to attain that degree of pomp and circumstance when fate, in the guise of the Drafting Officer at Blandborough Depot, played into its hands. Amongst a batch of new arrivals was a gem, a priceless jewel—a man who could blow a bugle.
He was a short, tubby individual with watery-blue eyes and a flat, rubicund nose. Quiet and unassuming, his arrival was hailed with acclamation. Had he asked for a silver trumpet and a pair of wings of a slightly different type to those worn by airmen no doubt the delighted officers would have done their level best to accede to his request. As it was they subscribed and purchased a trumpet, the sounds of which floated across the parade-ground in a manner calculated to raise the martial spirit of all ranks well above boiling-point.
Morning, noon, and night the clarion-like notes made the welkin ring. From Réveillé to Retreat and Last Post, and whenever circumstances demanded, there was the depot bugler with his highly-polished and tasselled trumpet.
For nearly a week this idyllic state of affairs continued, until the wellnigh exhausted bugler applied for leave in order to proceed to Belfast to bury a near relative.
He was granted seven days, and took his departure forthwith. A gloom descended over Sableridge. The polished bugle was silent, and reposed on a green baize-covered table in the orderly-room like a fairy princess awaiting the arrival of the enchanter to restore her to life.
The week passed, but no bugler returned. At the end of ten days he was posted as a deserter. Enquiries at Belfast showed that he had not been seen there, nor were any of his relations in need of his services as a mourner.
Then came the staggering blow. The meek and mild musical treasure was under lock and key, arrested by the civil police for at least half a dozen burglaries. The last heard of him was that he had received a sentence calculated to carry him well beyond the "duration", and the shattered idol was not replaced. Sableridge carried on without a bugler.
A day or so after the disappearance of the bugler Derek had to take his crew out into the bay for further instruction. It was mostly compass work and fixing positions by cross-bearings, and since speed was against successful work, the boat was slowed down and a trawl shot. This was killing two birds with one stone: there was plenty of time for compass-bearings, while there was a chance of supplying the mess with fish.
The first cast was a failure owing to the net getting foul of a submerged rock, but on the second attempt it became evident by the weight of the net that something was enmeshed.
"We've a good haul this time, I think," exclaimed Derek.
"Let's hope so, sir," announced the coxswain. "We can't be too sure, though. I remember my brother telling me about when he was off the Dardanelles—up Mudros way to be exact—he an' some pals did a lot of trawling. They thought they had a jolly good catch, but when they hauled in the net they found two dead mules and two old boots."
Slowly the weed-encumbered meshes were hauled inboard until the bulging pocket came in sight, packed with white and grey writhing fish—skate, flounder, and two large dog-fish.
"Those flat fish are all right," continued the coxswain. "I don't know about those skate. Rummy-lookin' creatures, ain't they, sir?"
The deep bass hum of an aerial propeller attracted the crew's attention from the catch. Five hundred feet overhead was a coastal airship which had drifted down silently with her engines shut off, and, having just restarted her motors, was manoeuvring into the wind's eye.
Perhaps it was as well that R.A.F. 1164 B carried on her fore-deck a square of canvas painted with the distinctive red, white, and blue circles. This device was a guarantee of her identity as a friend. Without it a small, grey-painted craft might easily be mistaken for a U-boat, with disastrous results.
Then the engines were stopped again. Over the side of the nacelle a leather-helmeted and begoggled head appeared. The pilot, raising a megaphone to his lips, hailed:
"R.A.F. launch ahoy! Any fish to spare us?"
"Right-o!" shouted Derek in reply, but his voice was apparently inaudible to the airship's crew, for the hail was repeated.
"Hold up some fish and let them see," ordered Derek.
One of the men displayed the largest skate, a lozenge-shaped fish measuring more than a yard from fin to fin.
"That's done them!" exclaimed Derek.
But he was mistaken. Like a cormorant swooping down from a beacon, the huge and seemingly ungainly airship tilted her nose and dropped almost vertically until her nacelle was within fifty or sixty feet of the water. Then, with her propeller revolving at a reduced rate, she forged ahead on a similar course to that of the motor-boat.
"By Jove! She's paying out her aerial. That's a smart move," announced Derek. "Easy ahead! Follow her up, coxswain."
Rapidly the thin but strong wire was unwound until the end dangled within reach of the crew of the boat. In a trice one of the men grasped the wire and bent it round the tail of the skate.
"Haul in!" shouted Derek.
"Thanks, old man!" yelled the Blimp's pilot in reply. "When you've a chance, look us up at Netherton. We'll give you a joy-ride."
"Sure thing!" replied Derek. "I'm on it!"
The airship rose slowly, her crew still winding in the skate that was revolving rapidly at the end of the aerial; then, having gained possession of the novel catch, the Blimp bore swiftly southwards to resume her patrol, while No. 1164 B steadied on her helm and shaped a course back to the Bar Buoy.
Happening to glance aft, Derek was somewhat surprised to find a small black kitten in the after-cockpit.
"What's that animal doing on board?" he demanded.
"Our mascot, sir," replied one of the men. "The Adjutant's dog chased it on board just before we left the pier."
"No. 17 coming out, sir," reported the coxswain, pointing to a motor-craft that was approaching at high speed. Interest in the kitten was transferred to the oncoming boat.
"She's signalling, sir," continued the coxswain, as a man holding a couple of hand-flags mounted the plunging fore-deck.
"Will you take Sergeant-Instructor Jenkins on board for the purpose of adjusting compass?" read the coxswain.
Both boats slowed down on approaching, and rounded gunwale to gunwale. The Sergeant, a short, burly man, who looked what he was—a seaman ex-R.N., in spite of his khaki uniform—saluted, and stepped into No. 1164 B.
"Ready to carry on, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, carry on, Sergeant," replied Derek.
The N.C.O. bent down to unship the hood of the compass. As he did so the kitten scrambled upon his back and on to his shoulder. With a yell the Sergeant dropped the metal hood fairly on the top of the compass. The glass cracked, the compass tilted on its gimbals, and the liquid poured from the bowl.
"That's gone west, sir!" exclaimed the Sergeant apologetically. "Sorry, sir; it was that blessed cat. Can't stick cats at any price. Completely up-end me, they do."
It was evident that nothing further could be done in the matter of adjusting that compass. The N.C.O. was profuse in his regrets, but regrets were unable to repair the damaged instrument. Accordingly the coxswain was ordered to take the boat back into the harbour.
"Yes, sir," resumed the Sergeant. "Cats are my 'beatty nowhere', [1] as the Frenchies say. Can't stick 'em at any price," he reiterated. "Got disrated once over a party of cats."
"Eh?" exclaimed Derek incredulously.
"Fact, sir; it was in '97, when I was yeoman of signals on theSpondulux—third-class cruiser she was. We were lying off the west coast, with awnings rigged day and night, and all that sort o' thing, and perishing hot it was, too. Well, we had a cat on board, which was bad enough, but, to make matters worse, the cat had kittens. One night I was keeping the middle watch when I heard a most awful racket. You'll understand, sir, we had the poop awning set, and the dew had stretched it as tight as a drum. There was that cat and her kittens careering up and down the awning and playing all sorts of pranks. The skipper rings his bell, so down I goes to his cabin. 'What's that?' he asked, holding up his hand, as if I couldn't hear plain enough. 'Cats, sir,' says I. 'Stop it,' says he. Those being my orders I had to carry 'em out. So out I turned, creeping along the ridge-rope of that blessed awning trying to collar the furry brood, or, rather, to drive 'em for'ard, 'cause touching 'em always sends cold shivers down my back. I hadn't gone a couple of yards before the awning parted, and down I went through the hole smack upon the poop. The Bloke (Commander) comes tumbling up out of his cabin, swears I've been skylarking, and takes away my badges."
Against the strong ebb tide R.A.F. 1164 B rubbed alongside the pier. The men were ascending the steps when the Officer of the Watch appeared.
"What's that kitten doing on board?" he enquired; then, without waiting for an explanation, he continued: "Sergeant Jenkins, hand that animal out."
The harassed instructor obeyed, although there were strong indications of repugnance as he handled the inoffensive little kitten.
The Officer of the Watch caught Derek's eye. The officers winked at each other, for each knew Sergeant Jenkins's antipathy.
"That's the stuff to give 'em," murmured the O.W.
[1] Bête noire.
Training under war-time conditions must necessarily be as brief as possible, consistent with a certain degree of efficiency; and the period of instruction at Sableridge was no exception. As quickly as raw material could be fashioned into fairly competent motor-boatmen, drafts were sent away and recruits brought in to fill their places, in order that the R.A.F. marine might relieve the Royal Navy of a certain branch of its work—namely, attending upon sea-planes and coastal airships.
As far as an officer under instruction was concerned, the test was a simple, and at the same time a drastic one. He might be sent at a few hours' notice to bring a motor-boat round from, say, Great Yarmouth to Sableridge, a distance of between two and three hundred miles. He had to use his discretion—to remain in port should the weather look threatening, or the atmospheric conditions point to fog or mist. Nevertheless, it was no light task to navigate a half-decked motor-craft in the depth of winter, when short days and dark nights added to the difficulties of making a passage.
It was of no use for an officer to attempt to live on his reputation. He had to be prepared to execute orders rationally and efficiently. There was one second-lieutenant who boasted that in pre-war days he had navigated his own yacht from Blackpool to the Isle of Man. Shortly after he had reported for duty at the depot an officer was required to bring a motor-launch round from Harwich.
"Why not send Ruby, sir?" suggested the Major, as he and the Colonel were debating as to who should be deputed for the task. "He has taken a boat across to the Isle of Man."
So Second-Lieutenant Ruby received his sailing orders, and for the next few days he walked about like a man in a trance. The magnitude of his task appalled him. Finally he went to the Major and declared that he was not equal to navigating the boat. From that moment he ceased to be a motor-boat officer, and was given a tedious but safe shore-billet.
It was towards the end of the first week in November that Derek Daventry received his orders for his first trip as an independent command. His instructions were to take two 35-footers and proceed to Wagshot Air Station, where he was to receive a sea-plane and tow her back to Sableridge. The double distance amounted to nearly seventy miles, of which half was open sea work. The sea-plane was an obsolete machine, the engines of which had been removed, and was required merely for the purpose of practising how to take this kind of aircraft in tow.
All the previous day Derek was exceptionally busy. On him rested the responsibility of the voyage. He had to see that the boats' equipment was in order, that the tanks were filled with petrol, that there was plenty of lubricating oil on board, that the men had drawn their rations and blankets, and that charts and navigating instruments were on board.
Before sunset the two boats were moored alongside the pier. The start was timed for six in the morning. Hardly ever had Derek studied the barometer so frequently and so carefully. Twice during the night he rose from his camp-bed, donned trench-coat and sea-boots, and walked down to the pier, in order to satisfy himself that the boats were riding properly in the tide-way, and that their securing-rope had sufficient slack to allow for the rise and fall of the tide.
At 5 a.m., just as he was enjoying a sound slumber, he was awakened by his batman.
"What sort of morning is it?" he asked.
"Cold, sir, and fine," replied the man. "Bright moonlight, and hardly any wind."
Quickly Derek tumbled out of bed and began to dress. Experience had taught him that to be warmly clad in a boat is as necessary as when flying. Over his khaki breeches he wore a pair of thick flannel trousers. On his feet he had a pair of socks, a pair of woollen stockings, and a voluminous pair of india-rubber sea-boots. Walking even a short distance in loosely-fitting boots inevitably resulted in the total destruction of the heels of the socks, but on the other hand it would be a fairly simple matter to kick off the boots in the event of Derek finding himself "in the ditch". Sea-boots that fit tightly, and cannot be taken off quickly in an emergency, are nothing short of death-traps.
He discarded his tunic, wearing in its place two thick sweaters. The next items were his oilskin trousers and coat, while the only outward and visible sign that he held His Majesty's Commission in the R.A.F. was his cap, with the distinctive badge of the crown, eagle, and wings.
By the time he had completed dressing breakfast was served. He ate his meal in solitary state in the electrically-lighted mess-room. There was no question of the excellence of the food at Sableridge, even in war-time. Hot Scotch porridge, with treacle, eggs and bacon, toast, real butter, marmalade and jam—a square meal to fortify the young officer's inner man for the coming ordeal of a sea-voyage. Feeling rather like an arctic explorer, for across his shoulders he now carried a well-filled haversack and a pair of binoculars, Derek descended the steps of the officers' mess and walked down to the pier.
The batman was right. It was a cold morning. Every bush was festooned with hoar-frost that glistened in the moonlight. The planks of the pier were slippery with ice, while there was a biting coldness in the air that gave a zest to life, even at six o'clock on a November morning.
The crews of the two boats were already at the pier-head, black oilskinned figures, looking like ghostly familiars in the grey light. Both craft had their engines running, the fumes from the exhausts rising strongly in the cold air. From the stern of each boat flew the White Ensign, while as a distinguishing pennant each displayed the "International F" from the short iron mast abaft the fore-deck.
Then came a grim reminder that there were war risks even on a coastal voyage. Before embarking every man had to give his name to the signalman on the pier-head, in order that their next-of-kin should be promptly informed if the boats met with disaster and the crews failed to return.
"All ready?"
"All ready, sir!"
"Cast off!"
With a slight jerk, as the clutch was slipped in, the 35-footer gathered way, her White Ensign temporarily enveloped in the bluish haze of the exhaust. A slight touch on the wheel steadied her on her helm, and soon the white signal-house on Sableridge Pier was a misty wraith in the darkness.
Half a cable's length astern followed the second boat, her sergeant-coxwain, unused to the science of navigation, although he knew how to handle a small craft, keeping station with the utmost fidelity. At that distance she was a mere indistinct grey wedge, her position chiefly indicated by the "bone in her teeth", otherwise the creamy froth leaping from her knife-like bows and thrown wide on either side by her pronounced flare.
Ahead the Bar Buoy winked its friendly greeting. No other light was visible in that quarter, and steering for that particular light was "not good enough", when on either hand of the narrow channel were dangerous sandbanks, on the fringes of which the surf was pounding heavily.
It was on this account that Derek kept looking astern. Over the bobbing canopy and beyond the fluttering ensign were two white lights, one several feet higher than the other, and actually four hundred yards apart. These were the only lights ashore, and were permitted when the exhibition of any other illuminant would result in a fine not exceeding £500. In short, they were the harbour leading lights, and as long as a mariner kept them in line, either when entering or leaving the fairway, he could carry on in absolute confidence, scorning the hidden dangers on either hand.
The Bar Buoy at last! Giving the boat starboard helm Derek swung her round until her head pointed due east. Already his cap and oilskins were running with moisture, and the salt spray was stinging his face and making his eyes smart despite the scanty protection afforded by the "dodger".
"Hardly so comfortable as my old 'bus," thought Daventry; "but it's jolly exhilarating. Now then, old lady, let's see how you take that one!"
"That one" referred to a crested "comber" that was bearing down towards the swiftly-moving boat. A slight touch on the helm and the fine bows swung round to take the advancing mass of water line on. Administrating a vicious slap to the wave the motor-boat lifted to the crested billow. Spray came hissing aft in solid sheets, pattering on the canvas canopy with a sound similar to that of peas being shaken in a wooden box. She was through, but immediately beyond was another wall of water.
Right down until her fore-deck ventilators were hidden plunged the boat. For a moment Derek thought she would never recover herself. The engine faltered. In a second the alert engineer was at the throttle and the "spark".
"Water on the mag, sir," he shouted. "I'll have to ease her."
"And about time," thought Derek. "Wonder if it's like this all the blinking way?"
But soon the boat entered smoother water. The breakers were on the weather side of the bar. Beyond was easier going.
Winking the moisture from his eyes, Derek glanced astern. The other boat was making fairly good weather of it, although she looked to be nothing more than a double wing of white foam.
"Good enough," declared Derek, and, calling to one of the deck-hands, he gave the wheel over into his care, admonishing him to report immediately Thorbury Head became visible.
"Now for a smoke!" he exclaimed, and, pulling out his favourite pipe, he carefully loaded up.
Curiosity prompted him to see what the rest of the crew were doing. Grasping the life-lines on the canopy he made his way aft, his sole foothold being the narrow, slippery water-ways.
Under the awning were the rest of the crew, lying helpless on top of a nondescript heap of blankets and oilskins, together with the disintegrated rations—fresh beef, "bully", and loaves. In the throes of sea-sickness the hapless "George Robey's Marines" hardly cared whether they were on or in the sea.
Clearly nothing could be done to help the luckless victims ofmal de mer, so Derek made his way back to the steering-well, and, standing behind the coxswain, surveyed the outlook.
There was very little to be seen, only a limited expanse of white-crested water, bounded by darkness that was even now struggling for mastery with the first faint tints of a grey dawn. Land, somewhere within three miles, was invisible. All that the helmsman had to depend upon was a small and untested compass fixed in a rather inaccessible and unhandy spot, and within three feet of the mass of metal comprising the six-cylinder motor.
There was also the danger of bumping on a drifting mine. Derek realized the peril. Fortunately perhaps for them, the men were in ignorance of the fact that mines had been reported within thirty miles of Fisherton Harbour, and, with an onshore wind and the indraught of the tide, thirty miles was a very small distance for one of these instruments of destruction to drift in forty-eight hours.
Added to this there was the possibility of being fired upon by the batteries at Churst and Fort Edward, guarding the narrow channel leading to the tidal estuary on the banks of which Wagshot Air Station stands. Although the forts had been warned that the two R.A.F. motor-boats were passing, there was always a chance that a highly-strung battery-commander might mistake the two grey hulls for the conning-towers of a pair of U-boats and give the order to open fire. Such a thing had been done before, with disastrous results.
Suddenly Derek's reveries were broken by the coxswain shouting:
"There it is, sir; a couple of points on the port bow!"
Unable to comprehend the nature of the intelligence, Derek peered ahead in the direction indicated, quite expecting to see a horned mine a few yards from the bows. Then he heaved a sigh of relief, for looming faintly through the mist was the unmistakable outline of Thorbury Head.