"9.10. Balloon to _Q.E._ Transport 16,000 tons in narrows
M17 x2 steaming slowly N.W. Can you open fire?
"9.12. _Q.E._ to Balloon. Am about to open fire.
"9.13. Balloon to _Q.E._ Transport now M17 x3. _Q.E._
fired ..."
There is a sudden deafening noise and I hear the roar of a shell
screaming at a terrible speed through the air. The roar slowly lessens,
and suddenly its tone drops about six notes as it passes over the coast
and moves above land instead of water. For nearly a minute I can hear
the ever low whine of the shell, which dies away in a faint thud.
"9.14. Balloon to _Q.E._ O 500. R 200," writes the
pencil.
The shell has fallen five hundred yards over its target, and two hundred
feet to the right.
"9.15. _Q.E._ fired ..." writes the pencil.
Again the tumult breaks out, again the shell roars, and changes its
note, and dies away in a little remote explosion.
"9.16. Balloon to _Q.E._ O 200 ..." writes the pencil.
The watchers in the balloon have seen a white column of water leap up
just beyond the little black shape in the ribbon of the narrows twelve
miles on the other side of the hills.
"9.18. _Q.E._ fired ..." continues the record.
This time the slow dying wail of the shell ends in a long tremulous
explosion.
"9.19. O.K...." writes the pencil.
The vessel has been struck. Then with an uncanny precision the writing
continues:--
"9.21. Vessel sinking. Forepart under water.
"9.23. Vessel submerged to forward funnel.
"9.25. Stern only visible above water.
"9.26. Vessel entirely submerged."
It seems incredible. The whole drama has been enacted with the same
orderly speed as the movement of the pencil. The great grey battleship
has, with three shots, sunk a large transport packed with a thousand men
and a considerable cargo of supplies, which lay some fifteen miles away
out of sight on the other side of a high range of hills. The blind
sailors have loaded their guns and have fired according to the
instructions given by the little figures swinging high in the blue
morning sky in a creaking basket hung from a drowsy yellow balloon....
Standing here by the little cabin I have been a witness of a wonderful
feat, and an awe-inspiring example of the scope of modern weapons.
This kite balloon of ours is the first ever used by the British, and
this magnificent achievement which I have just seen recorded is the
biggest triumph it has accomplished. It is naval history in the making.
I walk away across the hot raised balloon deck feeling strangely small,
strangely unimportant in an age of huge strength and mighty
possibilities.
Now the whine and clatter of the winch recommences, and the balloon
begins to descend slowly. When it is some five hundred feet above the
deck the whistle is blown to call us to "balloon stations," and we hurry
along to our appointed positions beside the tall wind-screens. Nearer
and nearer comes the balloon; larger and more ungainly grows its yellow
bulk, and soon the handling ropes are within reach. Catching hold of the
ends, we quickly thread them through ring-bolts and pull them steadily
till at last the balloon reaches deck, and the two observers climb out
of their baskets.
We are evidently proceeding to some new position where the balloon is
going to be used again, for it is not bagged completely down, but is
merely temporarily weighted by clusters of sandbags in the rigging, and
we stand by the ropes which are lashed to the side. After half an hour
or so we receive orders to prepare to let the balloon up again. The two
observers return with their binoculars and charts, and once more the
balloon rises upwards. I am now told off to oil the gas-pipe which leads
from the gas-cylinders aft to the balloon deck. This is a job which I
like, because I can look over the side and see what is happening. So,
with my can of yellow oil and my handful of cotton-waste, I watch a
half-hour or so of fierce battle. We lie some five miles off the land
near Achi Baba, where the lines run into the sea, and it is soon evident
that an attempt is being made to advance. Between us and the shore lie
several destroyers and a cruiser, and in a few minutes they start firing
rapidly. I hear the sharp sound of the guns, and then a few minutes
later the thud, thud of the exploding shells, and from the cliff leaps
up one, two, three shrubs of yellow coiling smoke, which quickly enlarge
into trees, and at length fade away in tall masses of vapour. Soon the
edge of the cliff is a maelstrom of smoke and flame. Yellow, white, and
black burst the shells, and as fast as the smoke of one salvo thins out,
the fan-shaped puffs leap out again in the middle, and add more
turbulence to the volcano. Just over the ground appear white puffs of
shrapnel smoke. Again and again, in the same place, they appear like
magic flowers in the air, and grow bigger, and frailer, and fade. The
air is rent and torn with the sound of the explosions, some incredibly
loud and vivid, some distant and dull, while to this chorus of tumult
lies as a background the delicate wooden click and clatter of remote
rifle and machine-gun fire, sounding like the fingers of a child beating
a tattoo on a kitchen table.
Now and again a great shell bursts half-way down a ravine in the side of
the cliffs, and fills it for a time with a coiling cloud of yellow
smoke. Little figures can be seen moving along the skyline, and here and
there flash bayonets and equipment. As I watch, I mechanically rub my
oily rag up and down the pipe, up and down. It seems hard to realise
that the tragic climax of war is being enacted out there before my eyes.
That men are dying, are screaming in agony with terrible wounds, are
whispering their last messages for their beloved ones in England to some
comrade bending over them. For me it is merely a wonderful scene, a
spectacle as in a play.
Then suddenly a whistling sound strikes a swift chill into my heart.
Louder and louder grows the noise with all its sense of hostile
approach, and ends at its summit with a dull explosion. Fifty feet away
a column of water and steam hangs above the blue placid sea, and slowly
fades, leaving a creamy-white disc on the water to show where the shell
has burst. Another whistle sounds and another, and both end in the noise
of an explosion, but from my present position I cannot see where the
shells have fallen. Another one sounds, however, and grows so loud that
I run instinctively into the nearest cabin, though it is no real
shelter. I hear a loud explosion, and returning cautiously to the rail,
see, some way down along the side of the boat, a white circle of foam,
whose edge actually touches our hull, so close is it.
Below in the engine-room I hear the clang of the telegraph, and the
growing mutter of the engines as we start to draw away from the coast.
The whistle sounds for balloon stations, and I hurry along the deck and
down a ladder to my place. The winch is pulling the balloon down as fast
as it can, and every now and then above its tumult we hear the long
whine and burst of a shell, whose explosion we cannot see owing to the
high canvas screens which shut us off from a view of the sea. It is a
most unpleasant experience, for the boat is only a small 4000-ton tramp
steamer, with the thinnest of decks, and it is loaded with cylinders of
compressed gas, with petrol, and with shells, and there is a "muse"
balloon full of gas in the hold beneath the forward deck as well. The
effect of a shell-burst on the boat will be at least pyrotechnical, and
probably very fatal. At last the balloon is down on the deck, the basket
is released, the "bagging down" operation is completed, and the ship
steams full speed out of range of the hostile artillery.
Now for a time we lie off the long golden beaches of Suvla Bay with the
dark orchards behind it, beyond which the slim white minarets rise from
among the hills. It is the hot drowsy hour of noon. Four or five
transports lie near us, while the inevitable trawlers in couples, with
noses cocked perkily in the air, sweep the water slowly for mines.
Behind us lies the grey shadow of Imbros in the distance. From the
mainland comes the occasional dull sound of shell fire, while the
crackle of musketry rises and falls as though on a gusty wind.
We sit on the poop under an awning to obtain a little protection from
the fierce heat of the sun. Around us lies the calm deep blue water. A
few people talk; now and again the daylight signalling-lamp clatters on
the bridge: it is an hour of absolute peace.
Suddenly a great tension sweeps over the crowd of men on the deck. Every
face changes its expression from utter tranquillity to absolute
amazement and apprehension.
"_Look!_" says some one.
There, lying terribly clear on the rich blue of the sea, is a thin
creamy ribbon of foam running from a point a mile or so away right to
the middle of the ship. For a second I realise that it is the track of a
torpedo, and I stiffen myself to receive the explosion. Nothing happens.
I realise at once that the danger is past, though it seems incredible
that we have not been struck. The gun on the forecastle barks out twice,
and looking over to the other side of the ship I see two columns of
spray leap out of the water near a round patch of white foam, from which
a thin white ribbon also runs to the side of the ship. We suddenly
understand what has taken place. A submarine has fired a torpedo at us,
point-blank, from scarcely twenty yards away; it has passed right under
the engine-room, and gone on another mile or so till its face is
extended. The first ribbon we saw was the track of the torpedo going
_away_ from us.
At once the hooter wails out the signal, "abandon ship stations," and
the "attacked by submarine" flag is hoisted at the mast. The engine-room
telegraph sounds frantically. The ship begins to move forward, and
slowly passes the long white spear of death which struck into us, and
yet left us miraculously untouched. I can hardly take my amazed eye away
from it. So uncanny and awe-inspiring is it, laid across the dark and
placid blue of the sea, which sparkles innocently under the cloudless
sky of an AEgean June.
The sound of our hooter and the sight of our flag, however, has wakened
the drowsy fleet to a furious activity. As I begin to adjust the
life-belt round my shoulders, in obedience to the "abandon ship
stations" orders, I see the transports gather speed as they make for
Mudros Bay in great zigzags. The admiral's yacht does not trouble about
twisting or turning to avoid the hidden menace, but ploughs at top speed
in a straight line for safety. The destroyers rush round in frantic
circles, the other balloon ship, the _Hector_, begins to steam rapidly,
while its balloon is still in the air, and it can be seen with what
speed the yellow gas-bag is being jerked down by the straining winch.
The sea is now a scene of furious energy. The white streak of foam
across the water has broken the drowsy moontide spell; in front of every
bow is a feather of spray, behind each stern a white zigzag wake. Every
ship is pointed one way--towards the welcoming boom of Imbros.
Suddenly I hear a brief exclamation.
"Look at that boat! Yes! By Gaba Tepe! It's been hit. It's the
_Triumph_, isn't it? It looks like it!"
* * * * *
Over towards the dark olive groves of Gaba Tepe--those olive groves
which so long sheltered a great gun whose position could not be
discovered--lies the grey outline of a battleship. It can be seen that
it is slightly out of the perpendicular, and a little puff of vapour
comes from it as the steam-pressure in the boiler is released to avoid
explosion. Slowly it tilts over till it is at an angle of forty-five
degrees to the water. Every now and then a gun flashes on it as the
gunners fire at the submarine which has attacked it. The dark shapes of
destroyers draw nearer and nearer to it. It lies stationary at a deep
angle for a little while, and then begins to turn over at a slow
deliberate speed; lower and lower it falls, until for a moment it lies
flat on the surface, and then ... all we can see between us and Gaba
Tepe is the blue water on which move the little destroyers, evidently
picking up survivors. The most splendid sight is to see the little
flashes on board as the gunners, true to their traditions, keep their
guns in action to the last.
We watch the tragedy in silence: it seems difficult to realise that in
the last few minutes we have seen the destruction of a powerful vessel,
with a crew of eight or nine hundred men on board. A solemn feeling
pervades the ship, and there is no laughter among us.
We pass a transport steaming out of Mudros Bay and signal to it. Quickly
it sweeps around, and returns to the little island, moving at full
speed in great zigzags. The menace of the sea has rendered the blue
sparkling water of the AEgean a dangerous home for any boat. No longer
can we lie at ease day after day off the sun-baked hills of Gallipoli.
We must needs live a tip-and-run life,--do our work, and return to
safety behind submarine defences.
So, with the grey shadow of sublime Samothrace hanging above the sea to
our right, we sail into the peace of Mudros Bay, round which the
thyme-scented hills of Imbros lie sleeping in the afternoon sun.