Ten minutes later the boats were in the turmoil of the troubled water caused by the swirl of the tide over Thorbury Ledge. Had it been light enough for anyone standing on the headland to watch the two diminutive craft struggling through the broken water, he would doubtless have expected to see the frail cockle-shells founder under his eyes.
It was hazardous work, certainly; but by this time Derek had the utmost confidence in the seaworthiness of his two craft. Often hidden from each other by the intervening crests, the boats behaved wondrously; but the youthful officer in charge was relieved to know that wind and tide were in the same direction. Had it been otherwise things might have been different. From the headland it was now plain sailing, for in the gathering light the slender tower of the lighthouse at Fort Churst could be discerned, standing out clearly against the dark background of the well-wooded hills. In forty minutes both boats were passing through the narrow channel. Signals were exchanged with the batteries, and the welcome order to proceed was received.
It was now comparatively smooth water. The crews, recovering from their malady, were able to sit up and take nourishment in the shape of bread and bully beef. More, they began to take a lively interest in their surroundings, although the aspect of that land-locked stretch of water in war-time and in November was far different from what it had been previous to August, 1914, when the sea was dotted with the sails of countless yachts.
"Wonder if it will ever be the same again?" thought Derek. "One thing's fairly certain: we won't see the German Emperor afloat here, unless as a prisoner of war on a British battleship."
Over a vast observation minefield the boats glided serenely. Fifty feet beneath their keels were cylinders of powerful explosive that at the touch of an electrically-connected key ashore would blow a hostile ship to atoms. Farther on there were mechanical contact-mines, moored fathoms down so that a vessel of the deepest draught could pass unscathed but should a U-boat attempt to nose her way in by creeping just above the bottom of the sea, her fate would be swift and terrible.
"Keep a sharp look-out for the gateway," ordered Derek, as he placed a fresh man at the helm. "It's getting a bit misty, and we don't want to run full tilt against the boom."
The boats were now nearing the innermost line of anti-submarine defences of the western approach to the greatest naval harbour in the world. Right across the water-way was a triple line of massive wire hawsers, supported by barrels at frequent intervals. So much was visible; what was not visible was a wondrous complication of nets, explosive charges, and other effective anti-submarine defences. Britain's sure and safe shield was taking no undue risks with Fritz and all his evil works. To enable authorized vessels to pass, a gateway had been constructed. Between two large craft moored a cable's length apart there was a movable section of the barrier, and towards this the two motor-boats steered.
"Motor-boats ahoy!" hailed an officer from one of the guard-ships. "You are to proceed to Bull Roads and await further orders from the S.N.O."
Against this mandate there was no appeal. The word of the Senior Naval Officer was more than law. Doubtless it meant irritating and apparently needless delay, but, whatever the object of the order, it had to be put into effect without delay.
"Aye, aye, sir!" shouted Derek in reply. He knew perfectly well that non-compliance would result in a six-pounder shell fired across his bows, and almost immediately a salvo from the guardship's quick-firers.
"Port helm!" continued Daventry, addressing the coxswain. Round swung his boat; the one astern instantly followed suit, and a course was shaped for Bull Roads, an open anchorage barely two miles distant.
Arriving here the boats had orders to anchor, and for four long hours they rolled heavily in the tide-way. Naval patrol-boats of all sorts and sizes passed continually, but none appeared to pay the slightest attention to the two strangers within their gates. It was not until well into the afternoon that a patrol-boat eased down within a few feet of Derek's craft.
"You can proceed," announced the officer.
"Why have we been detained?" asked Derek, wondering at the bald announcement and the lack of explanation.
The sub-lieutenant R.N.R. shrugged his shoulders.
"Ask me another, old sport," he replied. "If you want to carry on do so at once, before the Old Man puts another stopper on you.Bon voyage!"
The motors were started up; foot by foot the chain cables were brought on board until the anchors, their palms smothered in blue, slimy clay, were hauled up and secured. Then, in the gathering twilight, the boats headed for their destination. By this time the mist had increased considerably. Visibility was a matter of a couple of hundred yards. It was bitterly cold, the air being raw and damp. "Verily," thought Derek, "motor-boating in November differs considerably from yachting in August."
At length the huge air-sheds of the Wagshot Station loomed up through the mist. Ordering half-speed, Derek brought his boat alongside the pier, and signalled to the second craft to lie up alongside him.
"Where are you from?" enquired a great-coated individual from the pier-head—the Officer of the Watch.
"From. Sableridge," replied Derek. "We've come to take away a sea-plane."
"First I've heard about it," rejoined the O.W. "You'd better see the Adjutant. You're stopping here the night?"
"'Fraid there's no option," replied Daventry.
"Right-o! Moor your craft out there. I'll send a duty-boat out to take off the crews."
"Out there" was a partially-protected anchorage, about a hundred yards from the pier. The boats pushed off and made for their appointed stations for the night, Derek taking particular care that each boat was properly moored with both anchor and kedge.
This done the crews were taken off. Visions of a hot meal first for his men and then for himself (for it is an unwritten law that officers must first provide for the comfort of their crews before "packing up" themselves) were rudely shattered when the Officer of the Watch appeared.
"I've seen the Adjutant," he announced. "You'll have to take those boats across to Bumble Creek. They'll be in the way of our flying-boats if they stay there."
Derek felt inclined to use forcible language; to enquire pointedly why these instructions could not have been given him before the elaborate process of mooring the boats had commenced. To be ordered at the end of a strenuous day's work to undertake another hour's toil was a tough proposition for the cold and hungry men to tackle.
"I'll send the duty-boat to pilot you," continued the O.W. "She'll bring you back to the station." Thankful for small mercies Derek turned his men to. It required fifteen minutes of hard work to unmoor and get under way. Fortunately the duty-boat was standing by, for the run across to Bumble Creek meant crossing an arm of the sea that was constantly alive with traffic.
Once more the two boats were secured for the night, this time alongside a hulk. It was pitch dark when Derek and his men returned to Wagshot Air Station.
Having seen his men installed in their temporary quarters and provided with a hot meal, Derek made his way to the officers' mess. Instead of a bright, cheerful building like that at Sableridge, he was directed to a large hut, which was divided into two large rooms and a few smaller ones.
"There's the ward-room, sir," replied a girl in the uniform of the W.R.N.S. "The steward will arrange for dinner and quarters."
The ward-room was a wood-lined but devoid of almost every comfort. Floor and walls were bare, except, in the case of the walls, for a few technical prints of sea-planes and flying-boats. In one corner was a table piled high with leather coats, helmets, gloves, and other garments affected by airmen. A fire burned dully in a large grate, round which were seated, shoulder to shoulder, half a dozen young "quirks".
They greeted Daventry with supercilious glances; then, having surveyed him in stony silence, they resumed their conversation in loud tones, apparently with the idea of impressing the new arrival with their importance and familiarity with life in town.
"Cubs—utter outsiders," thought Derek. "And what a bear-garden this mess is."
Chilled both mentally and physically, Daventry went out, preferring to pace the bleak parade-ground until dinner was served to remaining in such inhospitable company.
Dinner over, payment was promptly demanded—another difference compared with the way they ran things at Sableridge, where any strange officer who happens to blow into the mess is given hospitality and never charged for his entertainment.
"I've secured a room for you in the new building, sir," announced the steward. "There'll be a car ready to take you up in twenty minutes."
Derek spent the time in revisiting his men. They were none too happy, although making the best of things. There were abundant evidences that Wagshot was what is known as a "Mouldy Station", but worse was to follow.
Up rattled the car; Derek took his seat, and off the ramshackle vehicle went. It may have been owing to the state of the road, but the jolting of the car was worse than any he had experienced in France. Over narrow-gauge railway lines, sometimes grinding on shingle, at others sinking in sand and mud, the car held on its way. The road was narrow, with the sea on either side, for Wagshot Air Station is built on a natural peninsula of which the isthmus is long, narrow, and rugged. The shore was littered with the skeletons of burned sea-planes and flying-boats, the gaunt framework of which stood out clearly against the misty sky.
Presently the car gained the mainland, swung round several sharp corners, and pulled up outside the quarters known as the New Buildings.
An orderly conducted Derek to his temporary quarters, which were well termed "New", for they were still in the builders' hands. After traversing several hundred yards of corridors that looked like those of a prison, with dozens of doors exactly alike, his guide stopped, produced a key, and threw open the portal of the "cabin".
It was a small room lighted by a feeble electric lamp. Walls and floor were of concrete that literally ran with moisture. There was neither carpet nor rug on the floor, while the furniture was of a most Spartan character, comprising two beds—one already occupied by a soundly-sleeping officer—a trestle table, and a chair.
"Hope you'll be comfortable, sir," remarked the batman ironically. He had seen strange officers "blow in" many times before, but he could not resist the temptation to indulge in mildplaisanterie."Lights are turned off at ten-thirty," he added, with infinite relish; "and if you shut the door on the outside you can't get in unless you come to me for a key, sir."
Left to the sole companionship of the soundly-snoring officer, Derek prepared to turn in. Investigations showed that the bed had a wire mattress, a straw pillow, and two army blankets. The pillow showed signs of disintegration; the blankets felt damp and smelt musty. Daventry felt inclined to use strong language. On active service on the Western Front he would have borne the discomfort with equanimity; in a permanent home-station there was no excuse for the wretched accommodation.
Kicking off his sea-boots and tunic Derek turned in practically "all standing", to pass a fitful night, and to awake to find a white mist enveloping everything.
He had breakfast with about twenty young officers, the meal consisting of a tablespoonful of luke-warm porridge, two square inches of American bacon, bread, margarine, and tea. Before he left the building the messman presented a bill for half a crown for this sorry repast.
Upon arriving at the pier-head Derek found that his men had fared no better, and in spite of the thick fog they brightened up considerably when their officer announced his intention of getting away from Wagshot Air Station "even if it rained ink".
The first step was to induce the Officer of the Watch to send the duty-boat over to Bumble Creek to fetch the motor-boats. This was successfully accomplished, notwithstanding the fact that twice the duty-boat ran aground, fortunately on soft mud and on a rising tide. By ten o'clock Derek's two craft were alongside the pier, and the sea-plane that had to be towed back to Sableridge was prepared for her voyage.
"The fog's lifting, I fancy," remarked the Officer of the Watch. "You'll be able to get away to-day after all."
"I mean to," rejoined Derek grimly.
A lifting fog, a calm sea, and the sun shining brightly overhead, all presaged a successful voyage. With the first pulsations of the motors Derek's feelings of resentment towards the Wagshot Air Station vanished. The bright, healthsome feeling of being afloat once more dispelled the hideous nightmare of damp concrete walls, hard beds, and inadequate food.
It soon became apparent that the task of towing the sea-plane was not so easy as Derek imagined. The unwieldy machine—for out of its natural element it was unwieldy—yawed, dipped, and strained at the towing-hawser until Derek ordered the second boat to make fast astern of the sea-plane and run at half throttle in order to steady the awkward tow.
With the ebb tide the passage through the "gateway" was soon completed. Another ten miles would find the sea-plane and her tug out in the open sea.
In the tide-rip off Fort Churst the behaviour of the sea-plane gave rise to some anxiety, but, upon gaining the exposed waters of the English Channel, the rate of progress was uniformly maintained.
Presently Derek noticed that a bank of fog was bearing down before a stiff southerly, or on-shore breeze. Already the outlines of Thorbury Head, nine miles away, were blotted out, while, on the starboard hand, the long line of low, yellowish cliffs was cut up into sections by the rolling, fleecy vapour.
Consulting the chart Derek found that his course was due west magnetic, which would pass at least a mile to the south'ard of the dangerous headland. Allowing for the reduced speed of the boats and the tow, he calculated that it would take about an hour to bring Thorbury Head broad on the beam.
Down swept the fog, enveloping everything. From the steering-wheel it was almost impossible to distinguish the boat's stem-head; while astern the sea-plane was absolutely invisible.
At the end of forty minutes Derek began to feel a bit doubtful of his position. Miles astern he could hear the monotonous, mournful wail of the Bodkin Lighthouse. The sea, hitherto calm, was now setting in with a long roll, breaking heavily upon the invisible shore with a continuous, sullen roar.
"It seems rather shallow, sir," remarked the coxswain, as he shook the drops of moisture from the rim of his sou'wester. "Shall I take a cast, sir?"
"Yes, please."
In his anxiety about keeping the boat on her course Derek had forgotten the indispensable lead-line. A cast gave two and a quarter fathoms, whereas, according to the chart, there ought to be a depth of nine.
"Steer south-west," ordered Derek. "There's something strange about this business," he added in an undertone.
"Breakers ahead, sir!"
A partial lifting of the fog enabled the range of visibility to extend to nearly a quarter of a mile. As far as the eye could see the water was one seething mass of huge waves, from which there was no escape. The boats were trapped in the dangerous Thorbury Bay.
It was the result of an error of judgment on the part of Derek Daventry. He had laid off the course of the chart without taking into consideration the leeway made by the slowly-moving boats and the ungainly sea-plane; neither had he made allowance for the deviation of the compass, which happened to be one and a half points on a westerly course; there was also the indraught of the tide, which tended to set a vessel shorewards. All three factors were hard at work during the run through the fog-bank.
The first breaker bore down, enveloping the leading boat's bows in a swirling cascade of water. Lifting the stocked anchor from its bed it swept the heavy mass of metal overboard. With a rush and a rattle the cable paid out until the boat brought up with a savage jerk. Simultaneously she swung round broadside on to a particularly fearful-looking breaker. Pouring over the cockpit the water promptly short-circuited the ignition, and the motor stopped dead. Helpless in the trough of the sea, the boat was at the mercy of the next crested wave.
"Cut away the sea-plane!" shouted Derek.
A hand gave the tautened cable a slash with a knife. Simultaneously the second boat cast off her steadying-line, and the abandoned sea-plane began drifting towards the shore with incredible rapidity.
To make matters worse the engineer, under the impression that the next sea would roll the boat completely over, kicked off his sea-boots and plunged overboard. In the grip of the tide he was swept to leeward, and even had he been an exceptionally good swimmer his chances of reaching the shore alive were very remote.
A deck-hand, seeing his comrade's predicament, jumped into the sea and struck out to his aid. It was a gallant but unavailing act, although by so doing he additionally hampered the work of rescue.
Meanwhile the second boat, ignorant of what had occurred, was making heavy weather in the breakers. She had all her work cut out to keep "end-on" to the hissing, seething masses of water that threatened to overwhelm her. Her coxswain-learner, who had a few months previously been steering a plough on a chalky Wiltshire down, was handling the boat with cool and calculated skill.
For want of an engineer Derek tackled the broken-down engine, working in feverish desperation in order to make an effort to save his two men. Plugs were out and replaced in record time, the magneto was wiped and dried, and the cylinders "doped". A couple of determined swings of the cranking-lever and the engine fired, spasmodically at first, then with every indication of "carrying on".
"Slip the cable!" shouted Derek.
A couple of hands made their way along the heaving, slippery fore-deck, hanging on tenaciously as masses of solid water swept over them. Watching his opportunity one of the men dropped down the fore-hatch, which his companion immediately replaced. In utter darkness, for the inspection lamp he carried was jerked violently against the coaming of the hatchway, the man toiled desperately, knocking out the stubborn pin of the shackle and allowing the cable to fly through the fair-lead.
The moment Derek saw the end of the cable disappear beneath the waves he slipped in the clutch, while the coxswain steadied the vessel on her helm and bore down toward the two swimmers. By dispensation of Providence the waves were no longer of such a threatening character. They were still formidable, and had to be treated with caution.
Judging his distance well the helmsman brought the boat close alongside the now well-nigh exhausted men. Already Derek had thrown the clutch into neutral, and, losing way, the motor-boat stopped to windward of the swimmers. Willing hands hauled them into safety, the engineer bleeding from a severe cut on the forehead, and showing distinct signs of light-headedness.
Meanwhile the second boat, having drawn clear of the dangerous breakers, was returning to the aid of her consort. As she did so her motor "konked". Instead of rendering assistance she was now in urgent need of help.
Another partial lifting of the fog revealed the true position. Within three hundred yards to the west'ard could be discerned the bold outlines of Thorbury Head, while to the nor'ard were the sand-dunes at the mouth of the shallow Thorbury Harbour, and it was between these two points that the breakers were raging. Elsewhere the sea was almost as calm as the proverbial mill-pond, but in the mist Derek had steered his boat right through the danger-zone.
Heaving a line to the disabled motor-boat Derek took her in tow, steering a circuitous course to avoid the now very apparent danger. Then, having made a good offing, he handed the helm to the coxswain. The engineer was quitehors de combat. Stripped of his saturated clothing and wrapped up in blankets, he was being attended to in the warm but cramped engine-room. Still light-headed, he required the sole attentions of one of the crew to keep him under control.
Derek was now able to review the situation. He felt far from comfortable on the matter. The seaplane was lost—probably smashed to matchwood on the beach. Both boats were considerably knocked about, while two of the crew were out of action, and a third was temporarily disabled by reason of a badly-crushed finger-nail. In addition there was the loss of a practically brand-new anchor and forty fathoms of galvanized cable, two life-buoys, and a White Ensign and its staff, which had been carried away during the towing manoeuvres.
And now, with malevolent irony, the sun was shining brightly, the last vestiges of fog had dispersed, and the sea was as smooth as glass.
Visions of a court martial, or at least a stringent court of enquiry, stared Derek in the face, with the possibility of being dismissed from the Marine Branch of the R.A.F.
"We'll be back just in time to miss the after-dinner parade, sir," remarked the coxswain, as the leading boat swept round the south-westerly extremity of Sableridge and the pier opened out at less than two hundred yards distance. "It's close on three bells."
"There's not a man on the parade-ground," rejoined Derek, "but there's a crowd on the pier-head, and all the boats are on their moorings 'cept the duty-boat. Looks jolly funny."
But the mystery of suspended activity on the part of the Marine Depot was soon elucidated, for a stentorian voice called Derek as his boat ran alongside the pier.
"Cheerio, old bird! Can you fancy yourself out of a job?"
Derek had been doing so for the last hour.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
A dozen voices answered the question.
"ARMISTICE!"
"You don't look particularly happy over the news, old man," remarked one of the officers on the pier-head. "P'raps, like old Mouldy here, you think that you'll be out of a job very soon. Cheer up, the war's not over yet."
Derek made no reply. As a matter of fact he was thinking more about the loss of the sea-plane than the news that Germany had thrown up the sponge. The two, taken in conjunction, might make things rather unpleasant for him, since it was evident that the navy, army, and air force must be drastically reduced after the cessation of hostilities —and Derek Daventry had not had enough of life in the R.A.F. He wanted to remain.
Just then someone slapped him vigorously on the back. Turning, he found himself face to face with his old flying-chum, John Kaye.
"What in the name of goodness brings you down here?" asked Derek.
"Joined the Marine Branch at Sableridge yesterday," replied Kaye. "Of course you took jolly good care to be out of the way when I wanted a pal to take me by the hand and show me the ropes. So when your two packets were sighted coming over the bar I came down to the pier to give you my candid opinion of your perfidious desertion. Had a good time?"
"Just so so," answered Derek.
"Then we're in for a lively evening, old thing," chipped in another officer. "We've packed up for the rest of the day. There's a football match on this afternoon, and to-night we all go to the theatre and let 'em know what an armistice means. So cut and shift, you salt-encrusted ancient mariner."
But there was work to do before Derek could be at liberty. The spare gear had to be taken out of the boats; the boats themselves had to be moored to their respective buoys; the crews had to be marched off, and their officer had to satisfy himself that they were able to obtain a belated dinner. Then there was his report to be made out and submitted to the C.O.
Greatly to his surprise and satisfaction the report was favourably received. In view of the circumstances, it was conceded that the officer in charge of the boats had extricated himself with skill and determination. The loss of the sea-plane was considered to be unavoidable, and, as a telegram had been received from the coast-guards at Thorbury Head saying that she had drifted ashore practically uninjured, the work of salvage had to be undertaken at the first favourable opportunity.
Armistice night was, to quotethe general consensusof opinion, a topping rag. Earlier in the evening all the men who could be spared were taken into the town by "liberty-boats", otherwise three large motor-lorries. Shortly afterwards the officers followed, every available motor-vehicle on the station being pressed into service. Derek and Kaye, together with seven other kindred spirits, crowded into and upon a car normally constructed to hold five, including the driver, two officers riding on the footboard, while another perched himself upon the bonnet.
Fifty yards behind came another similarly-laden car, followed by a third, and possibly it was solely tolerance on the part of the local police that every officer of the depot was not summoned to appear before the Bench for exceeding the speed limit.
Upon approaching the limits of the town the speedy cortège reduced its pace considerably. Through crowds of wildly-excited people the cars threaded their way. No one yet knew the terms of the Armistice. They were perfectly convinced in their own minds that the war was virtually over and that the Allies were top dog. It was an occasion for jollification, and the opportunity was seized.
"Some crowd, eh, what?" remarked Kaye.
"Rather," agreed Derek. "But what strikes me most is the display of street lamps. After years of almost total darkness at night one can hardly recognize the town in its blaze of light. Hallo! here we are."
The cars came to a standstill outside the theatre. Into the first two rows of the stalls trooped the Royal Air Force contingent, determined to have, at all costs, a topping rag. It was a dull play, but the audience amply atoned for its shortcomings. The members of the orchestra were invited to partake of bitter lemons, to the discomfiture of the wind-instrumentalists; the principal actors were presented with huge bouquets of cabbages and carrots; the manager was bombarded with requests for a speech, and was unmercifully ragged when he responded to the vociferous invitation. Thepièce de résistancewas the appearance upon the stage of His Worship the Mayor, who did his level best to deliver a patriotic harangue, at the conclusion of which he was solemnly presented with a titanic replica of a gorgeous jewel (tinselled cardboard) purporting to be the O.B.E.
Then, at the conclusion of the impromptu performance, the R.A.F. contingent filed out into the crowded street, to make their way to an hotel to enjoy a sumptuous supper in the unwonted setting of a brilliantly-lighted room with uncurtained windows. It was merely one way of bidding defiance to D.O.R.A., but it was symbolical of the beginning of a new regime.
During the ensuing week there was very little serious work done at the depot. It was a period of rejoicing, to which was added the disquieting consideration that sooner or later demobilization would bring its disturbing influence to bear upon efficiency. Followed a series of congratulatory calls between the officers of the various naval and military establishments in the district.
One of these was a visit to the Coastal Airship establishment at Downbury. Why the motor-cars on the return journey took a wrong turning and did not arrive at Sableridge till two o'clock in the morning was never satisfactorily explained, but upon returning the Adjutant discovered that he had left behind his favourite stick, fashioned from the blade of an air-propeller, with a top turned from the fuse-cap of a Boche shell that, fortunately for the present owner, had failed to explode.
Enquiries on the telephone next morning elicited the information that the stick was left in the mess at Downbury, and would be sent during the day.
Just before eleven two large coastal airships were seen making over Sableridge. Manoeuvred with a skill acquired by long practice, the huge gasbags began to circle over the depot, one of their crew actually attempting to remove the Colonel's flag from the masthead of the flagstaff outside the officers' quarters. By means of semaphore a lively exchange of compliments passed between the airmen up aloft and the airmen on the ground, while the former continued to show their stunt turns in a manner that caused the onlookers to anticipate a collision with the chimney-pots. Then, describing a curve over the harbour, one of the airships dropped an object to which was attached a bunch of streamers. With a splash the thing struck the water and floated vertically. It was the missing stick. Promptly a motor-boat pushed off from the pier and retrieved the returned property, then, with a final exchange of compliments, the two Blimps flew back to their sheds.
Next morning the signal officer's face looked grave. A letter, purporting to be an official document, had been handed to him. It was signed "Senior Naval Officer, Fisherton", and requested an explanation why a White Ensign, the jealously-guarded emblem of the pukka Royal Navy, was flown from the gaff of the flagstaff of a Royal Air Force establishment.
The whole thing was a hoax on the part of Dixon, the Lieutenant, R.N.V.R., commanding the guard-ship at Sableridge, and the R.A.F. signal officer "bit it badly". It was not until a reply had been drafted and submitted to the Commanding Officer of the depot that Dixon let the cat out of the bag. It was the first round of a friendly contest between the R.N. and the R.A.F., and the former was "one up".
When the men fell in parade that next morning the White Ensign was not flying. In its place dangled a large earthenware jug, a silent tribute on the part of the Sableridge signalling officer to the guard-ship officer's capacity for stowing away mild ale. It was as well that it was armistice week and the C.O. was in a tolerant mood, for the incident passed off without rebuke. R.N. and R.A.F. were now "honours even".
Next day the guard-ship was to be "paid off". After four years she was to be released from her moorings and towed back to Fisherton, and the departure of a time-honoured veteran could not take place without a farewell demonstration on the part of the Royal Air Force at Sableridge.
At two o'clock in the morning a small but desperate band of adventurers turned out of their camp-beds. There were Derek Daventry, clad in trench-coat, pyjamas, sea-boots, and muffler; Dennis, the Adjutant, muffled in a sweater, two greatcoats, and a pair of flying-boots; Wells, the signalling officer, and Kaye. The latter carried a small bundle of rag liberally smeared with vaseline.
It was a pitch-dark night. The stars were obscured by heavy, low-lying clouds. A keen easterly wind moaned through the fortress and hummed through the rigging of the guard-ship.
Softly the desperadoes made their way to the pier, three of them sheltering under the lee of the signal-house, while the fourth groped for the painter and stern-post of a small dinghy.
"Any signs of 'em?" asked Dennis.
"Not a movement," whispered Wells. "The watch on deck is evidently having a caulk. Got the dinghy ready yet, Kaye?"
"Can't find the rotten ropes," complained Kaye. "Ugh! Isn't it horribly cold? Why did I leave my little back room——? Hallo! Someone's tied a granny in the rope, and my fingers are frozen stiff."
"Not so much row there," cautioned Dennis. "If you can't unlash the thing, cut it. Now then, you fellows, don't capsize the boat and throw us into the ditch. How's the tide?"
"On the flood," replied Derek. "Oars muffled? Kaye, you rotter, you've put more vaseline on the thwarts than you have upon the rag round the rowlocks. I thought I was on the skating-rink for the moment. All ready? Give way."
Very silently the deeply-laden little craft pushed off. Partly paddled, partly carried by the tide, the boat neared the dark-grey bows of the guard-ship.
"Who's got the quart pot?" whispered Dennis. "You, Daventry—no? How about you, Kaye? No luck? I say, you blighters, don't all say you've left the beastly thing on the pier."
Cautious groping resulted in the discovery that the earthenware trophy was not in the boat. In the darkness the conspirators had left it perched precariously on the bottom step of the landing-stage.
"Together!" hissed the Adjutant. "Don't splash so, Kaye. You sent a shower down my back, and the water's horribly cold. 'Sides, you're making an awful row. Old man Dixon will be roused out of his beauty-sleep, and our little stunt will be a proper wash-out."
It was a hard tussle to regain the pier, for the spring tide was swirling viciously. The signalling officer managed to grab the jug and deposit it in the stern-sheets, and once more the raiders approached the silent and unsuspecting guard-ship.
Deftly Derek bent the boat's painter to a deadeye in the vessel's chains, and allowed the dinghy to drop astern until she lay alongside the Jacob's ladder that served as an accommodation-ladder. One by one the four swarmed up and gained the guard-ship's deck. Here they waited, listening intently. The wind, moaning dismally through the rigging, failed to outvoice the nasal efforts of the three men forming the guard-ship's crew. The Lieutenant, berthed aft, was also soundly asleep.
Wells nudged Derek in the ribs, and handed him the earthenware pitcher. Very cautiously the two commenced to mount the creaking ladder to the bridge, while Dennis and Kaye remained by the gangway, ready to cover their comrades' retreat should their presence be detected.
It did not take the signalling officer long to uncleat the masthead halyards. These he bent to the handle of the jug, at the same time inserting a piece of brass wire through the rope so that it would render through the sheaves in the masthead truck, but refuse to return when once a strain was put upon it.
Up into the darkness rose the fragile trophy. More than once it struck dully against the top-mast, fortunately without breaking. Lost to view, it announced its arrival at the top-mast head in no unmistakable manner. A sharp jerk, and the metal pin was released. The jug was almost literally nailed to the mast; until a hand was sent aloft—and it was hardly likely that any of the ancient mariners composing the guard-ship's crew could essay the feat—there it must perforce remain.
The work of re-embarkation was performed with more haste than discretion, the Adjutant stepping confidently into fifteen feet of water instead of into the boat. With praiseworthy devotion to the great cause, he refrained from audible comment in spite of the fact that Wells grabbed him by the hair. Unfortunately Dennis had adopted the latest fashion of allowing his hair to grow fairly long and to brush it back from his forehead. It made an excellent hand-grip for the signalling officer's massive and horny paw, but nevertheless the operation was a painful one.
At the risk of capsizing the dinghy, the Adjutant was hauled in, and the return trip was accomplished without further incident.
Exultant but shivering, the four officers made their way back to their quarters, and turned in to sleep the sleep of men who had achieved their ends.
Directly Derek awoke he sprang out of his folding bed and hastened to the window. In the pale-grey dawn he could see the outlines of the guard-ship silhouetted against the light. Aloft the trophy hung in uninterrupted serenity.
"Tug's alongside the guard-ship," announced the Adjutant at breakfast. "Let's go down to the pier and give her a good send-off."
Practically every R.A.F. officer on the station hurried out of the building and crowded on the pier-head. Crowds of men lined the shore, while dozens of civilian spectators appeared to watch the departure of one of the links of the Great War—the humble coaster that for the last four years had, under the authority of the White Ensign, prevented all unauthorized craft from leaving or entering Fisherton Harbour.
The Royal Air Force had made up its mind to give its departing confrère a fitting farewell. From the signal yard-arm on the pier fluttered a triple hoist of flags: "Good-bye; good luck". Klaxon horns, sirens, and the long-neglected trumpet blared forth in noisy lament; petrol-tins, on which to beat a rousing tattoo, were pressed into service; while the steam-tug, straining at the hawser, responded with a succession of strident whoops.
Slowly the guard-ship swung round and shaped a course for Fisherton, following obediently in the wake of the tug. On her bridge stood the burly figure of genial Lieutenant Dixon as he waved an acknowledgment of the exuberant welcome. Fifty feet above his head dangled the earthenware jug.
"He doesn't know it's there," remarked Derek.
"Then he jolly well will do so," rejoined the signalling officer, and, grasping a pair of hand-flags, he steadied himself on the pier-head rail.
"Guard-ship, what's that at your fore top-mast head?" he signalled.
The R.N.V.R. Lieutenant glanced aloft. For a moment he looked puzzled, then he realized that honours were no longer even. The R.A.F. were "one up".
A broad smile suffused his features. Snatching up a pair of hand-flags he semaphored:
"Thanks; but why didn't you fill it before you returned it?"
For the best part of the next five weeks adverse climatic conditions prevented the salvage of the stranded sea-plane. Unless given remarkably fine and calm weather, the sand-dunes of Thorbury, fringed by extensive shoals carrying less than a fathom of water, were inaccessible.
Christmas was drawing on apace, and the prospect of liberal leave demanded a "settling up" of the matter of the sea-plane as soon as possible. Having received his instructions either to salve or destroy the errant machine, Derek proceeded to Thorbury in a brand-new motor-boat fitted with a powerful paraffin engine, and capable of keeping the sea in almost any weather. Compared with the earlier motor-boats to which Derek had been accustomed, R.A.F. 21, as she was officially designated, was a ship. With sleeping accommodation for two officers and four men, and fitted with a small but efficient galley, she was practically independent of the shore in the matter of sleeping and feeding her crew.
Rounding Thorbury Head, R.A.F. 21 very cautiously approached the coast, keeping her lead-line going continuously. At a fathom and a half she anchored. It would be unwise to proceed farther in; even then the shore was only four hundred yards away.
Manning a dinghy Derek went ashore. It was a difficult matter, for the ground-swell was breaking heavily.
A brief examination of the sea-plane showed that her days were over. "Beach-combers" had already been at work, and several of the metal fittings had been stolen. It was also evident that an attempt to launch the sea-plane through the surf would meet with failure.
"She'll have to go," declared Derek to Kaye, who had accompanied him. "I'll send off for some petrol."
The crew set to work to remove the floats and dismantle the motor. This done, the fuselage was drenched with petrol and set on fire. In a quarter of an hour nothing but a few charred struts and tangled tension-wires remained.
Finding that it was impracticable to remove the floats—each of which weighed two hundredweight—except by land, Derek returned to make his report. His next task was to proceed by motor-lorry and bring the remains back to the depot.
Laden with a dinghy, two coils of three-inch rope, some "internal iron-bound blocks" (otherwise large pulleys), and nine men under Derek's orders, a large motor-lorry left Sableridge for Thorbury. The day was a perfect one, and the men were in high spirits, for the "stunt" promised to be of the nature of a picnic. In forty minutes the ponderous vehicle had covered the twelve miles between Sableridge and Thorbury, then further progress was barred by soft, yielding sand.
Between the lorry and the floats were first a stretch of fairly deep water forming part of Thorbury Harbour, and then three hundred yards of hummocking sand covered with coarse grass. The dinghy was unloaded, and the men and gear ferried across. Round one of the floats was passed a long rope, and all hands, tailing on to the slack, began to haul away. The result was rather surprising, for directly the heavy mass began to move half a dozen large rats scampered from the interior of the float.
Foot by foot, yard by yard, the float was man-hauled to the shore of the harbour, where, in sheltered water, it was launched and anchored until the second float was treated in a similar manner.
By this time the tide was ebbing with considerable strength, its rate exceeding five knots. The danger arose of the unwieldy craft being carried out across the bar to the open sea, and it was only by dint of hanging on to fifty fathoms of rope that the men could keep the floats in check. During these operations one of the floats capsized in the rollers that were sweeping in over the bar, and before it could be righted Derek and half a dozen of his men had their sea-boots filled with water.
At the nearest point to the lorry where the floats could be grounded was an expanse of a hundred yards of soft sand. All the man-power at Derek's command was unable to drag the floats up the gradually-shelving incline, nor could the lorry be brought any nearer by reason of the yielding nature of the sand.
"Proper Marathon, eh, what?" remarked Derek, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
"Pity we hadn't burnt these as well," rejoined Kaye. "Already these salvage operations cannot have cost a penny less than thirty pounds, and in the end these blessed floats will be sold for as many shillings to some blighter who wants them for fishing-punts."
"Service, my impatient lad; Service with a big S!" exclaimed Derek laughingly. "The main point is, we've got to bring these wretched floats back to the depot. I'm going to try hauling them up by means of the lorry. S'pose it's man enough for the job."
Accordingly a sufficient length of stout rope was lashed round one of the floats and also to the lorry. At the signal the powerful vehicle began to move slowly ahead, and, with hardly a hitch, the float slithered over the sand up the incline and on to the hard ground. The second float followed suit, and then came the task of loading up.
By the time the two floats, the dinghy, and the gear were piled upon the lorry there was precious little room for eleven persons, but the Royal Air Force men were not to be deterred by trifles. Swarming all over the small mountain of gear, and even perched upon the canvas awning, they returned tired but triumphant. At last the work of salvage was completed, although the actual amount of material recovered was but a moiety of the original sea-plane.
Upon entering the ante-room of the mess Derek and Kaye encountered Grainger, lieutenant and hydro expert. Grainger was in high spirits. His particular task was to get a hydro-glisseur into running order before he proceeded on Christmas leave, and in spite of numerous difficulties he had achieved his end.
"The priceless old thing has been running this morning," he declared. "I'm taking her for a spin up to Fisherton. Coming, you fellows?"
"Right-o!" replied Derek. "Hang on half a minute until I change my socks and sea-boots. I'm carrying about a quart of sea water in each boot, and it's beginning to feel slightly damp."
The hydro-glisseur, as its name implies, is a weird sort of craft that skims on the surface of the water and is propelled by a two-bladed aerial propeller. The body consists of six floats lashed together in pairs. Credited with a speed of fifty knots, hydro-glisseurs are used for towing aeroplane targets at high speed, while air-craft hovering overhead try their level best to bomb the targets into fragments.
"You'll want your flying-kit, you fellows," declared Grainger, as the trio prepared for the trial trip. "Unless you want to be as deaf as posts, don't forget your helmets."
Arrayed in leather jackets, flying head-dress and fur-lined gloves—gear that took Derek's thoughts back to those seemingly far-off days at Torringham aerodrome and on the Western Front—the "glisseurs" made their way to the boat-sheds out of which the freak craft were moored.
A few minor adjustments, and the powerful engine fired. Throttled well down, the motor was running at sufficient speed to make the propeller buzz as it cleft the air.
"All ready? Let go!" roared Grainger.
A touch of the controls, and the glisseur gathered way. Soon she began to lift under the enormously powerful drive of the huge propeller, until, with a deafening roar that could be heard for miles, the freak craft quickly worked up to a speed of certainly not less than forty-five knots.
Presently Grainger throttled down.
"There's a Boche submarine alongside Fisherton Quay," he announced. "She came into harbour at lunch-time. I vote we go and have a look at her."
The proposal met with unanimous assent, and a course was shaped for the place where the ex-German submarine was moored.
As the hydro-glisseur approached the quay the speed was greatly reduced. Derek could see the long, unlovely above-water outlines of the U-boat, her deck literally packed with people while from her mast floated the White Ensign over the discredited emblem of the badly-bruised Mailed Fist—the Black Cross of Hunland. For yards either way beyond the submarine the quay was lined with hundreds of interested spectators, for the trophy had been sent for public inspection, a small charge being made, and the proceeds given to local charities.
The Mayor of Fisherton, accompanied by the members of the Corporation, was engaged upon an official civic welcome to the surrendered U-boat. There were aldermen and councillors in blue and scarlet robes, in cocked-hats and "top-hats". Their wives, sisters, cousins, and aunts helped to swell the throng; while the gorgeously-attired mace-bearer and the portly town-crier, with his silver-plated bell, contributed their share to the splendour of the occasion. In the wake of the spectators was the town band; the musicians, having just completed a patriotic selection, were partaking of refreshment.
"Mind how you come alongside with that gadget of yours," sung out the Lieutenant in command of the submarine. "We've a terrific lot of camber, you know. If I were you I'd tie up alongside the quay. I'll show you round if you like, but there's a fine old crush already."
"We'll accept your invitation another day, thanks," replied Grainger, as the hydro-glisseur, with the ignition switched off, glided slowly and silently with the tide. "Nip ashore, Kaye, and make that rope fast!"
Moored stern-on to the granite wall of the quay, the hydro-glisseur bid fair to attract even more attention than the U-boat. Even the Mayor and Corporation delayed their departure to gaze upon the marine freak; while perspiring policemen strove in vain to keep back the Fisherton townsfolk and prevent them from unduly crowding upon the mayoral party.
"This is our little stunt," remarked Grainger. "Evidently people are curious to see us start up. We won't disappoint them. Stand by, Kaye, to cast off, but don't slip till I give the signal."
Suddenly the buzz of conversation on the quay was absolutely drowned by the appalling and deafening roar of the powerful engine and the deep bass hum of the whirling propeller. The next instant almost every hat in the wake of the rapidly-revolving "prop" was torn from it's owner's head and whirled aloft in the tornado-like back-draught. Scarlet and violet gowns flapped in the terrific blast like clothes hung out to dry on a boisterous day. In ten seconds a section of the crowd was swept aside like a portion of a cornfield falling under the action of a tractor reaper, while those of the spectators who were beyond the danger-zone rocked with merriment and shouted encouragement to the Marathon competitors for the runaway head-gear.