The White Flag--and Afterwards
H.M.S. _Tremendous_, super-Dreadnought of 24,000 tons displacement, and
mounting ten 13.5-inch guns as her principal armament, was tearing
up-Channel at 21 knots.
She looked far different from the spick-and-span battleship which had
left Portsmouth only six weeks previously.
Her armoured sides still showed unmistakable traces of the impact of
Turkish shells. Her grey paint was blotched, blistered, and stained.
Her after funnel had plates of sheet-iron riveted to it to hide a
gaping hole large enough to drive a stage-coach through. Her guns were
worn out by sheer hard work. It was mainly on this account that she
was homeward bound: to have the gigantic weapons "re-lined" in order
that she might again take her place as an effective unit of the Grand
Fleet.
The middle watch was about to relieve the morning watch. The mess
decks were a seething mass of humanity. In spite of the apparent
confusion everyone was in high good humour, for another few hours
(D.V.) would find H.M.S. _Tremendous_ at Pompey--as Portsmouth has from
time immemorial been termed by the Navy.
On the fire-control platform sleepy-eyed officers were awaiting their
reliefs. Around the 12-pounders, the muzzles of which grinned
menacingly from apparently haphazard positions in the superstructure,
men were grouped, ready at the first alarm to train the weapons upon a
possible foe. Day after day ceaseless vigilance was maintained. One
and all realized that a moment's negligence might result in destruction
by one of the most horrible creations of modern science.
"Submarine on the starboard bow, sir!"
For an instant all was tense silence. Then a bugle blared, followed by
the clear trills of the bos'n's mates' pipes and the hurried tramp of
men's feet.
The officer of the watch brought his telescope to bear ahead. He was a
junior lieutenant, Bourne by name, and in receipt of a private income
of eight hundred a year. On that sum he might have lived the life of a
man of leisure, but he vastly preferred a strenuous life as a
commissioned officer in the Royal Navy. Not once had he regretted his
choice, and upon the outbreak of war he was ready to execute a hornpipe
of sheer delight at the prospect of "being in the big scrap".
"She's flying the white flag, by Jove!" he ejaculated. "Funny,
deucedly funny!"
He had to act, and act promptly, for a battleship travelling at 21
knots does not give a man time to think for any length of time.
Already a messenger had been despatched to inform the "skipper", but
before the captain could gain the navigation bridge (more than likely
he was in his bath) the _Tremendous_ would have covered the intervening
distance.
The quartermaster looked enquiringly at the Lieutenant. Bourne stepped
hastily to the engine-room telegraph indicator, half inclined to ring
down for "half-speed", or even "stop both engines".
He stopped abruptly.
"Steady on your helm, quartermaster."
"Steady it is, sir," replied the petty officer.
The telegraph indicator remained untouched. With undiminished speed
H.M.S. _Tremendous_ held on, under the propelling force of turbine
engines of 30,000 indicated horse-power.
A midshipman, standing by the side of the officer of the watch, had
been keeping the submarine under observation by means of his telescope.
"By Jove, sir!" he exclaimed. "There's something wrong there. The
white flag's down, and two fellows in mufti have leapt overboard."
"Torpedo on the port bow, sir!" sang out half a dozen lusty voices in
chorus.
"Hard-a-port, quartermaster!" ordered Bourne.
The spokes of the steam steering-gear revolved quicker than they had
ever done before. Listing heavily to port, the _Tremendous_ turned
with a rapidity that belied her huge bulk and apparent unhandiness. A
double track of ever-diverging foam marked the progress of the deadly
missile. Another followed almost in its wake, both torpedoes
travelling at the speed of an express train.
For four seconds all on board who watched these messages of death stood
with bated breath. Then a general roar of relief went up as the two
"tinfish" glided harmlessly past the ship, the nearest at a distance of
less than twenty feet, and parallel to the new course of the battleship.
Half a dozen quick-firers spat viciously. A 6-inch, two of which for
some obscure reason the designers had placed on the main deck abreast
of the after 15-inch guns, added to the din. A chaos of smoke, flame,
and spray marked the spot beneath which U77 had lurked to launch her
cowardly and treacherous bolt.
"That's blinded her, at least," thought Bourne.
He knew that even if the hidden submarine had escaped injury, a minute
at least would elapse before she could be conned into a position to
discharge another torpedo. That minute would be enough for his purpose.
"Starboard!" he ordered. "Ram her, quartermaster!"
Round swung the 24,000 tons of dead weight, steadied, and bore down
upon the motionless U75. Cries of terror burst from the doomed crew,
many of whom leapt overboard in a vain attempt to swim clear of the
vengeful leviathan.
Bourne gripped the guard-rail, half expecting to be thrown violently by
the force of the impact. He was mistaken.
With hardly a tremor the bows of the _Tremendous_ crashed into the
unterseeboot, hitting her just abaft the conning-tower. The bow
portion sank like a stone. The after part reared itself high in the
air, revealing the curiously shaped stern, the two propellers, and the
complication of rudders. Then, before the cloud of smoke and spray had
time to drift inboard, the _Tremendous_ was over and beyond the
ever-widening circle of iridescent oil that marked the ocean grave of
yet another of the would-be blockaders of Britain's shores.
Even in the midst of his great responsibility Bourne's keen eye
discerned two heads bobbing up and down in the water. The midshipman
noticed them too.
"They are those fellows who hauled down the white flag, sir," he
exclaimed. "They are quite youngsters, too, and we daren't stop."
"No, we dare not," agreed the Lieutenant. For aught he knew, another
unterseeboot might be in the vicinity, reserving her torpedoes in the
hope that the battleship would slow down to investigate. "Pass the
word to the sentry to let go the Kisbie. It's the best we can do."
With a splash the patent lifebuoy was dropped from the cage at the
extremity of the navigation-bridge. It bobbed up again under the
battleship's quarter, emitting a dense cloud of calcium smoke as it did
so. By the time the marine had dropped the Kisbie the ship was a
quarter of a mile away from the two swimmers.
"It's the best we can do," repeated Bourne as he closed the eyepiece of
his telescope. "They may fetch it, they are swimming strongly."
"Well done, Mr. Bourne!" exclaimed a deep voice.
Turning, the Lieutenant faced the Captain standing beside him.
"A smart manoeuvre!" continued the skipper approvingly. "We can now
only carry on; but we'll wireless the Commander-in-Chief Devonport, and
report that there are survivors from the rammed submarine. He'll have
a destroyer patrol on the spot within an hour, and I hope it won't be
too late."
Bourne stepped to the extremity of the bridge and glanced astern. His
effort to distinguish the heads of the two swimmers was fruitless, for
a thin haze, the smoke from the ship's funnel, spread far in her wake,
completely obliterating the spot where Ross Trefusis and Vernon Haye
were swimming for dear life.
It will be necessary to set back the hands of the clock in order to
follow the fortunes of Ross and his chum.
"Is she slowing down?" whispered Vernon anxiously, as they stood on the
deck of U75 awaiting the approach of the _Tremendous_.
"I don't think so," replied Ross. "But now's our time."
The attention of Schwalbe and his crew was centred upon the battleship;
the Kapitan momentarily expecting to see the huge vessel reel under the
impact of the terrible torpedo, while the men began to entertain grave
doubts as to whether the British ship would accept their token of
surrender. The fact that the super-Dreadnought showed no signs of
slowing down revived Kapitan Schwalbe's doubts. Knowing the difficulty
of hitting, even at a comparatively short range, a swiftly moving
target, he began to wonder whether he did the right thing in falling in
with von Hoffner's diabolical plan.
His hurried thoughts were suddenly interrupted by some light object
enveloping his head and shoulders. Before he could tear the fabric
away he heard two distinct splashes, followed by shouts of astonishment
from the crew; for with one clean sweep with his knife Ross had severed
the halliards of the ensign staff.
The lads dived deep, swimming the while with long, powerful strokes,
for both were accomplished in the art of natation. They were longer in
coming to the surface than they anticipated, owing to the weight of
their half-boots, which they had been unable to remove without risk of
causing suspicion.
When at length their heads emerged almost simultaneously, they found
themselves nearly fifteen yards from the doomed U75.
"Strike out!" spluttered Ross. "Get as far away from her as you can.
Never mind about old Schwalbe. He can't hurt us."
Ross was right, for however much the Kapitan wanted to wreak his
vengeance upon his former prisoners, he was unable to do so. In his
rôle as that of an officer waiting to surrender, the possession of a
revolver would tend to "give the show away". He had left his pistol in
his cabin--an example that his Unter-leutnant had followed. And now
his attention was directed upon the British battleship.
Meanwhile, the lads, swimming strongly, saw the _Tremendous_ heel as
she ported helm. For a minute, not knowing how a ship behaves when the
helm is suddenly put hard over, they thought that the treacherous
unterseeboot had successfully carried out her cold-blooded plan. Yet
no explosion occurred, and the battleship recovered her normal trim.
With their eyes only a few inches above the surface, the lads could see
nothing of the track of the torpedoes. They had no indication that
they had been fired until the _Tremendous_ let fly with her 12-pounders.
"I think we've saved her," said Vernon. "Now there'll be trouble for
us. Schwalbe will certainly have a shot at recapturing us after the
battleship has cleared off. Why doesn't she settle U75, I wonder?"
The lads both expressed astonishment that the motionless unterseeboot
had escaped the attention of the super-Dreadnought's quick-firers. It
seemed as if the latter were ignoring U75 altogether and was sheering
off at full speed.
Suddenly Ross gave a whoop of delight, which ended in his swallowing a
mouthful of salt water. The _Tremendous_ was turning once more, and
heading straight for the doomed submarine.
[Illustration: "THE _TREMENDOUS_ WAS HEADING STRAIGHT FOR THE DOOMED
SUBMARINE"]
Mentally Ross compared the on-coming battleship with an express train,
as shown on a cinematograph screen, in the act of approaching the
audience. At one moment the ship was visible from her water-line to
the truck of her top-mast; at the next her bulk had suddenly expanded
and seemed to fill the complete field of vision. It looked as if the
two lads, in spite of the distance they had put between themselves and
the motionless submarine, would yet be in the way of the vengeful
battleship, whose extreme beam was not less than ninety feet.
Yet neither of the two chums made the slightest effort to swim farther
away. Mechanically treading water, they waited and watched.
They could see the terror-stricken attitudes of the crew of the doomed
U75. They heard the shouts of consternation as the massive steel bows
bore down upon her. Then, in a second it seemed, there was a hideous
crash that outvoiced the yells and shouts of despair as the
unterseeboot was rent in twain.
Of what happened during the next minute the lads had but a very hazy
idea. Caught by the irresistible bow wave as the _Tremendous_ tore
past, they were hurled aside like feathers and buried a couple of
fathoms down under the breaking, foaming mass of water. Vaguely they
heard the whirring of the four propellers--very near, it seemed; then,
caught by an eddy caused by the cavitation in the wake of the monstrous
vessel, they were separated and flung to the surface, half-breathless
and dazed.
Ross opened his eyes. The _Tremendous_ had already covered nearly a
quarter of a mile. Twenty yards away he saw his chum's head, as
Vernon, puffing like a grampus, was striking out towards him.
Where the submarine had dived for the last time was an ever-widening
circle of oil. Those of the German crew who had not been carried down
by the sinking unterseeboot were too shaken by the concussion to make
any great effort to save their lives. Attempting to keep afloat in
that oil-covered water added to their difficulties, for whenever the
head of a swimmer disappeared he did not rise again.
"Kick off your boots, old man," exclaimed Ross.
"Where are the lifebuoys?" asked Vernon as he carried out his friend's
advice.
One buoy had disappeared; the other was supporting a seaman, the only
survivor of the crew.
"A case of finding's are keeping's," announced Ross. "We can't sling
him out of it. It might support two people. We could take turns at
hanging on."
"Stop!" exclaimed Vernon as Ross began to strike out towards the buoy.
"There'll be trouble if we get mixed up in that oil. It's much lighter
than water. I doubt whether we could swim in it. Do you think the
_Tremendous_ will put back?"
"Not likely," replied Trefusis.
He looked in the direction of the fast-vanishing battleship, half
hoping that she would slow down and lower a boat. As he did so,
something caught his eye: a cloud of grey smoke apparently issuing from
the sea.
"What's that?" he asked, pointing in that direction.
"Torpedo, perhaps; one that has finished her run," suggested Vernon;
but his chum waved aside the explanation.
"If U77 did fire a torpedo, you can bet your bottom dollar it wasn't
one with a dummy head!" he said. "Only practice torpedoes send up a
calcium light when their compressed air has given out. By Jove, I
believe it's one of those patent buoys! Let's make for it."
The lads swam strongly, making powerful and comparatively slow
breast-strokes. The water was warm. They were in no immediate danger
of cramp.
As they skirted the patch of oil they noticed that the seaman holding
on to the buoy had turned round. His face was now in their direction.
The man was Hans Koppe.
"Are you all right, Hans?" shouted Ross.
"Yes, mein herr," replied the man. "I've found a buoy."
"Thanks to us," thought Trefusis; then raising his voice: "You had
better kick out and get clear of the oil," he advised. "We are making
for yonder buoy."
By the time the swimmers reached the Kisbie the emission of calcium
smoke had ceased. They found that not only did the buoy support them
both, but that it was so constructed as to allow them to maintain a
sitting position without having to hold on with both hands. Glad of a
seat they waited, watching the approach of Hans Koppe, and also looking
for the undesired reappearance of U77.
"Ach! My wife and children!" exclaimed Hans Koppe disconsolately, as
he brought his lifebuoy close alongside. "I shall never see them
again."
"Cheer up, Hans!" replied Vernon. "At any moment U77 might come to the
surface and take you on board. We don't mind, so long as they let us
alone. We've had enough of your unterseebooten."
"U77?" gasped the German incredulously. "How do you know that?"
Briefly Haye related the story of the ill-fated Kapitan Schwalbe's
treachery. As he proceeded Han's face bore a surprised expression that
presently changed to one of fear.
"If we are picked up by an English ship," he remarked, "they will shoot
me for abuse of the white flag. And I am innocent. Ach! my poor wife."
"They won't," replied Ross reassuringly. "We can swear that you knew
nothing about it."
The minutes passed slowly. There was no sign of U77. Little did the
three survivors know that she lay within a quarter of a mile of her
consort, on the bed of the English Channel--to add to the
ever-increasing roll of unterseebooten that were fated never to enter a
German port again.
The sun rose higher and higher, its rays gathering strength as it did
so. The heads of the three survivors were exposed to the solar heat;
their bodies and limbs were numbed by prolonged immersion. The desire
for conversation had long since passed. Almost exhausted they hung to
their supports, listless and torpid. A few sea-gulls, struck with the
silence of the three men, hovered overhead, and swooped with shrill
cries to settle on the water within close distance of what appeared to
be a possible meal. One bolder than the rest perched upon Trefusis'
head.
Raising his arm, Ross dealt the bird a furious blow. It missed, but
had the effect of scattering the gulls. Apathetically the lad watched
them as they flew off. As he did so he caught sight of three vessels
being driven at high speed.
"Hurrah!" he exclaimed feebly. "The destroyers, old man; we are saved!"