Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "FLOATING SERENELY ON THE SURFACE WAS A SUBMARINE; ONE
OF THE MOST MODERN OF THE GERMAN _UNTERSEEBOOTEN_"]
The Fight for Constantinople
A Story of the Gallipoli Peninsula
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
Author of "The Dispatch-Riders" "The Sea-girt Fortress" "When East
Meets West" "Captured at Tripoli" &c. &c.
_Illustrated by W. E. Wigfull_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
Contents
CHAP.
I. Under Sealed Orders
II. Cleared for Action
III. The Demolition Party
IV. Trapped in The Magazine
V. A Dash up The Narrows
VI. To The Rescue
VII. The "Hammerer's" Whaler
VIII. A Prisoner of War
IX. In Captivity
X. A Bid for Freedom
XI. A Modern Odyssey
XII. The German Submarine
XIII. Torpedoed
XIV. Through Unseen Perils
XV. Disabled
XVI. A Daring Stroke
XVII. Within Sight of Constantinople
XVIII. A Midnight Encounter
XIX. The Sub to the Rescue
XX. Saving the Old "Hammerer"
Illustrations
"Floating serenely on the surface was a submarine; one of
the most modern of the German _Unterseebooten_ . . . _Frontispiece_
"The '_Calder_' held grimly and swiftly on her way"
"With a well-directed blow Dick planted his clenched fist squarely
upon the point of the Major's chin"
"Before the Turkish irregulars could penetrate the deception the
two British officers were through"
"The two seamen hauled him into safety"
THE FIGHT FOR CONSTANTINOPLE
CHAPTER I
Under Sealed Orders
"Dick, my boy, here are your marching orders," announced Colonel
Crosthwaite, holding up a telegram for his son's inspection.
"Marching orders, eh?" queried Sub-lieutenant Richard Crosthwaite with
a breezy laugh. "Hope it's something good."
"Can't get out of the old routine, Dick. I suppose I ought to call it
your appointment. It's to the _Hammerer_. Why, my boy, you don't look
very happy about it: what's up?"
"Nothing much, pater," replied the Sub, as he strove to conceal the
shade of disappointment that flitted over his features. "I must take
whatever is given me without demur----"
"Of course," promptly interposed his parent. "That's duty all the
world over."
"But at the same time I had hoped to get something, well--something not
altogether approaching the scrap-iron stage."
"Yes, the _Hammerer_ is a fairly old craft, I'll admit," said Colonel
Crosthwaite. "I've just looked her up in Brassey's----"
"Launched in 1895, completed during the following year; of 14,900 tons;
has a principal armament of four 12-inch guns, and a secondary battery
of twelve 6-inch," added Dick, who had the details of most vessels of
H.M. Navy and many foreign Powers at his fingers' ends. "She's a
weatherly old craft, but it isn't likely she'll take part in an action
with the German High Seas Fleet, when it does come out of the Kiel
Canal. Things are fairly quiet in the North Sea, except for a few
isolated destroyer actions, and, of course, the _Blücher_ business.
Aboard the _Hammerer_--one of the last line of defence--the chance of
smelling powder will be a rotten one."
"In the opinion of those in authority, Dick, these ships are wanted,
and officers and men must be found to man them. Everyone cannot be in
the firing-line."
"I'm not grumbling exactly," explained Dick. "Only----"
"Grumbling just a little," added his father. "Well, my boy, you may
get your chance yet. War was ever a strange thing for placing unknowns
in the limelight, and this war in particular. Now buck up and get your
kit together. It will mean an all-night railway journey, since you've
to join your ship at Portsmouth at 9 a.m. to-morrow."
Dick Crosthwaite was on ten days' leave, after "paying off" the old
_Seasprite_. The outbreak of war had been responsible for his fairly
rapid promotion, and having put in seven months as a midshipman on
board the light cruiser _Seasprite_--which had been engaged in patrol
work in the North Sea--he found himself promoted to Acting
Sub-lieutenant.
His work on the cruiser was, in spite of the dreary and bleak climatic
conditions, interesting and not devoid of incident. He had not taken
part in any action; his ship had escaped the attentions of hostile
submarines and drifting mines. There was a spice of risk about the
business that appealed to him--a possibility that before long the
_Seasprite_ would have a chance of using her guns in real earnest.
Then came orders for the light cruiser to proceed to Greenock and "pay
off". Her ship's company were given leave, which after months of
strenuous watch and ward they thoroughly deserved, and Sub-lieutenant
Crosthwaite found himself once more in his home in a secluded part of
Shropshire.
Although he fully appreciated the brief spell of leisure, his active
mind was dwelling upon the prospects in store for him. With the
certificates he had gained he considered, with all due respect for My
Lords' discretion, that nothing short of an appointment on one of the
super-Dreadnoughts or battle-cruisers would be a fitting reward for his
zeal and activity. Hence it came as a decided set-back when he found
himself appointed to the old _Hammerer._
He knew the obsolescent battleship both by observation and repute. He
had seen her lying in one of the basins of the dockyard extensions at
Portsmouth, looking the picture of neglect in her garb of grey mottled
with the stains of rusty iron.
He had also seen a painting of her when she was in her prime. That
painting was an object of value to his uncle, Captain John Crosthwaite,
R.N., for he had hoisted his pennant on the _Hammerer_ when she was the
pride of the then Channel Fleet. With her black hull, white upper
works, and buff-coloured masts and funnels, she looked a totally
different vessel from the grey monster that was on the point of being
sent to the scrap-heap. For twenty years she had existed without
having fired a shot in anger; now on the eve of her career she was to
be given a chance--a very faint chance, Dick thought--of doing her part
against the enemies of King and country.
That same evening Sub-lieutenant Crosthwaite bade his mother and
sisters good-bye, and, accompanied by the Colonel and Dick's two young
brothers, drove to the station.
"Au revoir, Dick!" exclaimed his brother George, with all the dignity
of a public-school boy of fourteen.
"And don't forget to bring us home some war trophies," added
twelve-year-old Peter.
Dick laughingly assented, then grasped his father's hand.
"Good-bye, Dad," he said.
"Good-bye, my lad; and don't forget to do your level best and keep our
end up. It's no use mincing matters: we've a tough, uphill job.
Good-bye, my lad; and may God bless you!"
Conscious that several pairs of eyes were upon them, father and son
drew themselves up and saluted. Dick entered the train and was whirled
away, while Colonel Crosthwaite returned home for a brief twelve hours
before he, too, would be on his way to his regiment--a promising unit
of Kitchener's Army.
At half-past eight on the following morning Dick passed through the
main gate of Portsmouth Dockyard. Seamen and dockyard "maties" were
everywhere, working with the utmost activity--for here at least there
was no slacking.
Wagon-loads of stores came bounding along over the hard granite setts,
drawn by stalwart bluejackets in working kit; no longer, as in the old
piping times of peace, did the dockyard workmen amble quietly with
their work. Everything was done at the double. It was a sign of the
times, when the stress and strain of naval warfare requires promptness
and activity.
Under the ruined buildings that formerly were surmounted by the
semaphore tower--ruins that suggested the scene of a German raid--the
Sub made his way to the South Railway Jetty, alongside of which was
moored H.M.S. _Hammerer_, almost ready to proceed to sea.
In her new garb of neutral-grey the old ship looked smart and
business-like. In each of her two barbettes a pair of re-lined 12-inch
guns grinned menacingly. Her brasswork no longer glittered in the
sunlight: it had been daubed over with the same hue of neutral paint.
The only dashes of colour about her were the blue-and-gold uniforms of
the officers, for she showed no flag. It was yet too soon for the
time-honoured custom of hoisting the white ensign with full naval
honours.
Having duly reported himself, Dick was informed that he was to be in
charge of the gun-room--the cradle of budding Nelsons, for the
_Hammerer_ carried twelve midshipmen in addition to a clerk and two
assistant clerks.
For the next three days the Sub had hardly a minute to call his own.
It was a hasty, yet complete, commissioning, nothing being overlooked
in the matter of detail; and during those three days the ship's company
did a normal week's work. Meals had to be hurriedly snatched. Even
the usual formal dinner had to be scrambled through, with grave danger
to the digestions of the youthful officers. What with coaling,
shipping ammunition and stores, and generally "shaking down", Dick was
glad to tumble into his bunk and sleep the sleep of healthy exhaustion,
until aroused by his servant announcing that it was time to begin
another day's arduous duty.
At length the _Hammerer_ was ready to sail to her unknown destination;
for it was an understood thing that she was to proceed under sealed
orders.
The Captain and most of the officers on duty were on the fore-bridge.
Aft mustered the marine guard and the band, while the stanchion rails
and gun-ports were packed with seamen in their white working-rig.
On the jetty were the dockyard Staff-captain's men, ready at the word
of command to slip "springs" and hawsers; but the usual setting of the
picture of a departing man-of-war was absent. No throng of relatives
and friends of the crew gathered on the farewell jetty. The time of
departure was a secret. In war-time the great silent navy is shown to
perfection; and no crowd of civilians is permitted to see what may
prove to be the last of a leviathan going forth to do her duty in the
North Sea.
A signalman, holding the halyard in his hand, awaited a glance from the
Captain. It came at last. Up fluttered a hoist of bunting--the formal
asking for permission to proceed.
"Permission, sir!" reported the signalman, as an answering string of
colour announced that the Commander-in-Chief of the port had graciously
condescended to order the _Hammerer_ to do what had been previously
ordered.
"Stand clear!"
To the accompaniment of the shrill trill of the bos'n's mates' pipes,
the working parties surged hither and thither in apparently utter
confusion; then almost imperceptibly, as the powerful tug in attendance
began to pull the ship's bows clear of the jetty, the _Hammerer_
started on her voyage into the great unknown.
A bugle-call--and every officer and man stood to attention, the marines
presenting arms as the battleship glided past the old _Victory_.
Another call, and the men relaxed their attitude of rigidity. The last
compliment had been paid to the authorities of the home port--the
_Hammerer_ was outward bound.
"Any idea of the rendezvous?" asked Jack Sefton, one of the midshipmen,
as the lads forgathered in the gun-room to "stand easy", almost for the
first time since commissioning.
"Rather," announced another, Trevor Maynebrace, who, having an uncle an
admiral, professed somewhat loftily to be "in the know".
"Rather--Rosyth: that's where we are bound, my dear Sefton; there to
swing at moorings till the ship's bottom is smothered in barnacles.
They'll keep us in reserve to fill up gaps caused by casualties, and,
judging by recent events, we'll have to cool our heels a thundering
long time."
"You're quite sure, Maynebrace?" asked the Sub.
"Quite--well, nearly so," admitted the midshipman.
"Then what do you make of that?" continued Dick, pointing through the
open scuttle.
Broad on the starboard beam rose the frowning cliffs of Dunnose. The
land was that of the Isle of Wight, so that the _Hammerer's_ course was
approximately south-west.
She was not alone. On either side, at ten cables' distance, were two
long, lean destroyers of the River class, their mission being to
safeguard the ship from the attack of a lurking German submarine.
"H'm!" muttered the discomfited middy. "P'r'aps there's been an
alteration of plans. Looks as if we're bound for Plymouth."
"Or the Mediterranean, perhaps," remarked Jolly, the clerk, who looked
anything but his name.
He was a weedy-limbed youth, narrow-chested and knock-kneed. He was as
short-sighted as a bat, and wore spectacles with lenses of terrific
power. To those not in the know, it seemed astonishing how he managed
to pass the doctor; but Jolly's father was a post-captain, and that
made all the difference. Unable owing to physical disabilities to
enter the executive branch and follow in his father's footsteps, the
lad had taken the only alternative career open to him that the
Admiralty provides for short-sighted youths, and had entered the
service as an assistant clerk.
Maynebrace gave the representative of the accountant branch a look of
scorn.
"I don't think!" he said with a sneer. "Our Mediterranean Fleet is
quite large enough for all emergencies. We'd be of no use for the
Egyptian business. Our draught of water is too much for the Canal;
besides, the _Swiftsure_ and _Triumph_ will attend to that little
affair. No; I reckon it's Plymouth, and then the North Sea via Cape
Wrath."
Just then the muffled sound of a tremendous roar of cheering, issuing
from four hundred lusty throats, was faintly borne to the ears of the
members of the gun-room. Again and again it was repeated.
"Scoot," ordered Crosthwaite, addressing Farnworth, one of the junior
midshipmen. "Scoot as hard as you can, and see what the rumpus is
about."
In two minutes the youngster, his face glowing with excitement, dashed
into the gun-room.
"Glorious news!" he exclaimed. "The owner's opened the sealed orders.
We're off to the Dardanelles. We'll have the time of our lives."