"Shrap"
It was late in the afternoon when the _Oxford_ arrived, under her own
steam, at Rosyth. Although the dry docks were in use, accommodation
was quickly found for the damaged cruiser by the simple expedient of
floating out a battleship that was being cleaned and recoated with
anti-fouling composition. Since speed is an absolute necessity for
efficiency in war-time, it was the practice to dock all the ships of
the battle-cruiser and armoured cruiser class in rotation, the margin
of safety being sufficient to allow this to be done without impairing
the strength of the squadrons.
By the aid of powerful arc-lamps the dockyard hands took the crippled
_Oxford_ into dock, and, the caisson having been replaced, the water
was quickly pumped out. The damage done was found, on examination, to
be limited to a space extending 30 feet from the bows. The actual
aperture caused by the explosion measured 6 feet by 30 inches, but the
adjacent plates had been buckled and the bolts "started" under the
violent concussion. Well it was that the armoured bulkhead had
withstood the strain, otherwise nothing could have saved the ship.
There was no delay in setting to work. Almost before the last of the
water had been pumped out of the dock, stagings were built up round the
bows, and scores of shipwrights set to work to rebuild the damaged
portion of the hull. Under normal conditions the work would have taken
a couple of months, but, by working day and night, the efficient
dockyard staff hoped to effect repairs within nine days.
Since the commencement of the greatest war the world has ever yet seen,
it was the custom to allow the officers and crews of torpedoed or mined
ships--if they were fortunate enough to be numbered amongst the
survivors--seven days' leave. A rest on shore was necessary for the
crews to recover from the mental shock, for it was found that although
the men might escape from physical injury and appear bright and
cheerful immediately after the occurrence, the reaction was most marked
at about forty-eight hours afterwards.
Ross and Vernon, although not borne in the books of the _Oxford_,
received permission to go on leave. Since Haye's father was somewhere
in the North Sea, and he had no near relatives, he gladly accepted
Ross's offer to sample again the hospitality of Killigwent Hall.
It was late when their train arrived at King's Cross; so much so that
the lads realized it would be useless to attempt to catch the Cornwall
express that would land them at St. Bedal just before midnight.
"I vote we have an evening in town," suggested Vernon. "Let's go to a
theatre. It seems ages since I was inside a music hall, or even a
picture palace."
"All right," agreed Ross. "We'll have a jolly good square meal before
we go. I know of a decent little hotel just off the Strand."
The two midshipmen took the Underground as far as Charing Cross. As
they emerged from the station they renewed their acquaintance with the
metropolis in war-time. The streets were plunged in almost Stygian
darkness. Omnibuses and taxicabs crawled painfully through the gloom;
pedestrians were cannoning into each other at every step. The only
relief to the blackness were the two search-lights from the Admiralty
Arch that swung like gigantic pendulums across the dark and misty sky.
"Let's get out of it," exclaimed Ross, as he just managed to save
himself from being run down by a motor-car. "It's a jolly sight more
dangerous than keeping the middle watch on the old _Capella_."
Five minutes later they were sitting down to an ample dinner, provided
at a cost that proved pretty conclusively the futility of the German
submarine blockade. In the well-lighted room there was little to
suggest that business was not proceeding "as usual", except perhaps the
predominance of khaki-clad officers.
A string band was discoursing the latest operatic music, the diners
were laughing and chattering. Within, the gaiety and light-heartedness
contrasted violently with the dismal gloom inflicted upon the
metropolis as a result of precautions adopted by the triple authorities
responsible for its defence against air-craft.
Presently the band finished one item on the programme. The comparative
silence that followed was almost immediately interrupted by a series of
sharp reports, punctuated by a deeper crash.
"Zepps!" exclaimed a dozen voices.
Instantly there was a rush--not for the deep cellars underneath the
building, but for the open street. The white faces of a few of the
guests showed that they had, perhaps, a little anxiety, but for the
most part an excitable curiosity took possession of the crowd.
"Come on!" exclaimed Ross to his chum. "Let's see the fun. We haven't
had a chance of seeing a real Zepp before."
The lad's words voiced the thoughts of nine-tenths of the dwellers of
the metropolis who were within sight of the would-be Terror of the Air.
Useless, indeed, were the official warnings as to the right thing to be
done when the Zeppelins came. One man, however, drew a respirator from
a hand-bag and proceeded to don it, until a roar of laughter from the
stream of people issuing from the hotel caused him somewhat
shamefacedly to replace the useless article.
Into the street the lads elbowed their way. The progress through the
long corridor of the hotel reminded them of a football scrum. It was
not the blind rush of panic; merely a desire to lose nothing of the
"fun".
A couple of thousand feet overhead, a silvery-grey, bluff-pointed
cylinder was moving with apparent slowness. Half a dozen search-lights
concentrated their beams upon it. All around were rings of smoke,
marking the bursting shells from the anti-aircraft guns; yet,
apparently untouched by the hail of bullets, the giant gas-bag passed
on, hurling out death and destruction upon the greatest city on
earth--a city that, until the present war, had only once heard the
thunder of hostile guns.
Breathlessly the lads watched the progress of the huge Zeppelin,
momentarily expecting it to collapse and come tumbling, a tangled mass
of flaming wreckage, to the ground. Viewed from below, it seemed
impossible for the airship to escape the bursting shells. The air was
rent by the crash of falling bombs and the sharp reports of the
"anti's", while in the distance could be heard the clatter of broken
glass. The explosive bombs wrought havoc upon the homes of harmless
Londoners. Flames, too, were springing up, throwing a lurid glare upon
the sky.
Yet, unless actually within radius of the German explosives, the
populace was remarkably calm. Men, women, and children watched the
Zeppelin, much in the same way as if they were witnessing a Brock's
display at the Crystal Palace. Once again German frightfulness had
failed--and failed badly--to attain its desired end.
"Hurrah! She's got it properly in the neck," shouted an excited
special constable, as the Zeppelin gave a sudden lurch and began to
drop at an acute angle.
But the next instant the silvery envelope was hidden in a cloud of
dense black smoke. Seconds passed, but no shattered wreckage streamed
earthwards. When the vapour dispersed, the Zeppelin was nowhere to be
seen. Under cover of the smoke-cloud she had dropped a large quantity
of ballast, and had soared skyward to a great altitude.
Gradually, like the rumble of a passing thunderstorm, the reports of
the distant anti-aircraft guns died away. The Zepps had taken
themselves off, leaving half a dozen fires and hundreds of more or less
damaged buildings to impress upon the strafed English that insularity
is no longer a protection from the cowardly night-raiders of the air.
"The show's over," declared Ross. "I vote we turn in. By Jove,
there'll be a rush to the recruiting offices to-morrow!"
Requesting to be called at eight, the two midshipmen entered the lift
and were whisked up to their room.
"What's that noise?" asked Vernon, pausing in the midst of unpacking
his portmanteau.
"Something in the corridor," replied Ross.
"I don't think so. It's something or someone under my bed. Lock the
door, old man; no, don't ring, if it's a burglar we'll tackle him."
Haye knelt by the bedside, Ross standing behind him ready to grapple
with the intruder. Cautiously Vernon lifted the valance. As he did so
he quickly withdrew his hand, which had come in contact with something
warm and moist.
"Dash it all!" he exclaimed. "It's a dog. Come out, sir!"
He was right. The animal gave a low whine, but made no attempt to
budge.
"Mind the brute doesn't fix you," cautioned Ross.
"No fear," replied his chum confidently. "All dogs take to me. Come
along, old boy."
Again he groped with his hand. His fingers touched the long, silky
hair on the animal's neck. Slowly he drew the creature from its place
of concealment. It was a sheep-dog pup, of about four months.
"Pretty-looking dog," exclaimed Vernon. "I wonder how it came here?
Suppose it was frightened at the racket. It looks terrified out of its
wits. Good dog!"
The pup fixed its large brown eyes upon Vernon's face, and attempted to
wag its stumpy tail. As it did so the lads discovered that its hind
quarters were tinged with blood.
"Oh, you poor little beggar!" said Vernon sympathetically. "However
did you get that? I say, Ross, fill that basin with water."
"Better send for the boots," suggested Trefusis. "He'll take it to a
vet.'s, or perhaps he'll know whose dog it is."
"Not much chance of finding a vet. at this time of night," objected
Vernon. "Even the chemist will be busy with minor casualties. No, I
won't worry the management. I've doctored dogs before now."
He began bathing the matted hair. The flow of blood had ceased, but
upon examining the wound he found that it was a small circular incision.
He felt the spot. The pup, hitherto patient, uttered a low moan.
"There's something hard there," reported Vernon. "It's only a little
way under the skin. We'll have it out. Hold his head, old man. Don't
let him yelp; keep your hand over his muzzle. I'm afraid I must hurt
the poor little beggar a bit."
Using the little blade of a knife, Haye adroitly probed the wound.
Soft-hearted as he was, the action seemed to hurt him more than the
patient; but his efforts were rewarded by the extraction of a small
steel ball.
"A shrapnel bullet!" exclaimed Ross. "That accounts for the poor
little brute being in such a terrible funk. Give him a drink of water.
He'll be better now. We can bandage the wound with our handkerchiefs."
Five minutes later the dumb patient, his hind quarters swathed in
elaborate bandages, was lying contentedly upon the hearth-rug, his
stumpy tail, protruding between the folds of linen, wagging, as he
tried to express his gratitude in doggy fashion.
"Now what's to be done?" enquired Ross.
"Let him stop until morning," replied Vernon decisively. "There might
be a row if the hotel people know that there's a dog in the bedroom.
The owner can't be much of a chap if he doesn't make enquiries."
"Perhaps he hasn't missed the dog," suggested Ross; "or it's just
likely he isn't stopping at the hotel. Well, here goes. I'm turning
in."
Ten minutes later both midshipmen were fast asleep. They had no middle
watch to keep, and as for Zeppelins, they were merely a passing show.
At daylight Vernon was awakened by something licking his face. The
pup, having shown his contempt for bandages by biting them to ribbons,
was standing on his hind legs and licking his benefactor's nose, while
his tail was wagging with the rapidity of the flag of an expert
signaller. The hardy little animal had made light of his wound.
Having dressed, the midshipman made enquiries of the waiter, but
without satisfactory results. No one in the hotel had a dog.
"I'll report him to the police," decided Vernon. "Ten to one the owner
won't claim him. At any rate I'll stick to him. He's awfully fond of
me already."
After breakfast Vernon sent the obliging waiter to purchase a collar,
for the sheep-dog was wearing none. Sticking closely to Vernon's
heels, the pup followed his new master to the police station, where an
inspector took down a number of particulars.
"Very good, sir; that's all I want. I don't fancy you'll hear any more
about it."
"What are you going to call him?" asked Ross, as the chums were seated
in a first-class carriage, with the dog at Vernon's feet, on their way
to Cornwall.
"Zepp," replied Vernon promptly.
"Not patriotic," objected Ross with a laugh.
"I think so," rejoined his chum.
"Why?"
"Because, like last night's Zeppelin, he turned tail when he had a
shrapnel bullet in his stern."
"That's all very well," said Ross, "but you can't explain all that to
everyone. Why not call him Shrapnel?"
"All right. 'Shrap' for short," agreed Vernon. "Good boy, Shrap! Wag
your tail, you little rascal."
And Shrap obeyed promptly. Evidently the choice of a name reminiscent
of bodily injury troubled him not one jot.