The Stowaway
Lieutenant-Commander the Hon. Derek Stockdale stooped and patted the
dog's head. Flirt, instinctively realizing that she was being
caressed by a friend, wagged a stumpy tail and licked the skipper's
tanned hand.
It was on the morning following R19's departure and Noel Fordyce's
discovery. The submarine was still running awash. North, south, east,
and west the horizon was unbroken. Sea and sky met in a sharp,
well-defined line. Save for R19, the broad expanse of the North Sea
appeared to be deserted, although none could tell what dangers lurked
beneath the surface of the dull-green water.
The skipper was taking a stroll on deck when Noel appeared with the
four-footed Stowaway. Lieutenant Macquare was on duty on the
navigating-platform. For'ard of the conning-tower half a dozen
bluejackets, clad in fearnought suits, evinced a lively interest in
the proceedings.
[Illustration: THE TOO-FAITHFUL FLIRT]
"So this is the animal that didn't bite Councillor What's-his-name?"
remarked the Lieutenant-Commander, for the report of the police-court
proceedings at the Otherport Town Hall was common knowledge.
"I'm afraid, sir," replied the Sub, "that Flirt was guilty of the
offence."
"Eh, what's that?" asked the Hon. Derek sharply.
Briefly Noel outlined what had occurred, for the present confining
himself to the case as decided by the magistrates. The story of the
previous interview with Councillor Mindiggle could be deferred to a
more convenient season.
"She doesn't look like a snappy cur," remarked the skipper.
"Nor is she, sir," Fordyce hastened to assert. "Something must have
irritated her."
"So you smuggled her abroad?"
The Sub denied the impeachment.
"For the life of me I cannot imagine how she came aboard, sir," he
declared. "It was a great surprise to me to find her below. I was
quite under the impression that she was twenty miles from Otherport."
"She is--and more," remarked Stockdale, with a laugh. "Very well,
Fordyce; such devotion ought to be appreciated. Look after her, and
keep her out of mischief: the mascot of submarine R19."
The interview ended, the Sub took his pet for'ard to be "adopted" by
the ship's company. Evidently safe in the knowledge that her master
could not now desert her, Flirt went willingly with half a dozen
bluejackets to be fed, groomed, and to make the acquaintance of her
new messmates.
"She seems to take to you, Cassidy," remarked the Sub, addressing a
bull-necked able-seaman.
"Yes, sir," replied the man, saluting. "We've met afore, ain't us,
doggie?"
"In what circumstances?" asked Fordyce.
"Well, sir," replied the man, "seein' an 'ow Cap'n Stockdale don't
object, I'll make a clean breast of it. It was yesterday mornin',
when we were drawin' stores in the dockyard, that I spots the dog
sniffin' round the steps. Comes up to me friendly-like, as if she
knowed I belonged to this 'ere craft. Then I looks at 'er collar and
sees your name. 'Bless me, Smiler,' I says to my raggie, 'if this
ain't Mr. Fordyce's dog, same as took a chunk outer that cove's leg
t'other day.' 'Mr. Fordyce, he's aboard,' said Smiler. ''Ow about it?
Let's give the dog a passage.' She nips into the boat and under the
stern-sheets in a brace o' shakes. When we got alongside, out she
'ops and goes straight below, while you an' Mr. Macquare was spinnin'
a yarn."
"Then why didn't you report to me?" asked Fordyce.
"Seein' as 'ow the dog didn't want to report 'erself, we thought as
'ow we'd let you have a little surprise, sir," explained Cassidy.
"You see, she might a' been sent ashore."
Steadily R19 forged ahead, her course regularly checked by frequent
observations on the sextant, and "picked out" on the chart. A
deviation of a few miles would bring the submarine into the British
mine-fields. Provided she kept to the trackless path, as announced by
the Admiralty, she had nothing to fear from these; it was the
sinister drifting mines sown by the Huns with a reckless disregard of
the rights of neutrals and the vaunted "Freedom of the Seas" wherein
lay the danger. In addition, it was always possible that a lurking
U-boat might be within striking distance, for the old theory that
"dog will not eat dog", i.e. one submarine is unable to attack
another, had long since exploded. Overhead, too, a hostile seaplane,
soaring at an immense height, might swoop down and attempt to destroy
the craft by means of powerful bombs; and the danger, although remote
in this part of the North Sea, could not be lost sight of.
Nevertheless R19 still ran awash. Until she was within easy distance
of hostile territorial waters it was policy to do so, since a British
seaplane would find it difficult to distinguish friend from foe
should she spot the ill-defined shape of a submerged craft creeping
blindly through the water at a depth of from fifty to a hundred feet.
"Submarine on the port bow, sir," reported the look-out.
The order for "General Quarters" rang out. Telescopes and binoculars
were brought to bear upon the triangular-shaped grey object, cleaving
the waves at a distance of nearly three miles, while the four
quick-firers were promptly raised from their places of concealment
and manned to open fire at the first word of command.
The old couplet:
"Twice armed is he who has his quarrel just,
Thrice armed is he who gets his blow home fust",
is essentially applicable in modern naval warfare when single-ship
actions take place at comparatively short range. The days of
courteous exchange of compliments between doughty antagonists before
opening fire are past. The first shot may decide, and frequently has
decided, the contest.
Therein, especially during night encounters between destroyers in the
Straits of Dover and off the Belgian coast, the Huns held an
important advantage. Every vessel afloat was to them an enemy craft,
while the British had to withhold their fire until they made certain
that they were not attacking a friendly or neutral ship.
"She's flying the White Ensign!" exclaimed Macquare. "By Jove, she's
been at it!"
The approaching submarine turned out to be one of the E Class
returning from observation patrol. She was showing a considerable
amount of freeboard. Most of her water-ballast had been started. Just
abaft her conning-tower, on the port side, a tarpaulin and a "thrum
mat" had been lashed over a rent extending from just above her
water-line to half-way across her curved deck. Pumps were steadily
ejecting water--a circumstance that told of strained plates and
shattered rivets. Of her twin periscopes, one had been shorn off
close to the top of the conning-tower; the other, bent at an acute
angle, trailed drunkenly over the side.
Dive she could not, unless once and for all time. Only by running on
the surface and keeping the leaks under control could she hope to
make port. With her ensign proudly displayed, and most of her
officers and crew drawn up on her narrow deck, she held on her
course, the passing submarines saluting each other according to the
honourable and long-standing custom of the seas.
The Hon. Derek Stockdale raised a megaphone to his lips.
"Been strafed?" he enquired laconically.
"Aye, aye," was the reply, shouted in clear, decisive tones.
"Scrapped with a Zepp., crocked her, and then took on a U-boat. She
won't trouble you, but keep your weather eye lifting for Zepps.
S'long and good luck!"
Ten minutes later the E Something was out of sight. Her cruise had
been honourably accomplished. She was bound for home and a
well-earned rest. R19's had just begun, and already the prospect of
imminent excitement was in store. Dark, rugged clouds, scudding
rapidly in the upper air, betokened a gale as surely as did the
steadily-falling mercury of the barometer. With luck R19 ought to
overhaul the crippled Zepp. as she strove to battle her way against
the rising storm.