"Accidents will Happen"
Grey dawn was breaking when submarine R19 approached the waters of
the Skager-rack. Well on their port bow could be faintly discerned
the rugged cliffs of Norway, but it was yet too hazy to sight the
low-lying shores of Jutland. The strong wind had blown itself out,
and although the waves still ran high they had lost their angry look.
It was possible to stand on deck without having to hang on like grim
death, as the water surged waist-high over the comparatively
low-lying structure.
Scorning to take advantage of the doubtful security afforded by the
"three-mile limit", R19 kept a mid-channel course, prepared to dive
the instant a suspicious craft was sighted. She was to keep awash as
far as practicable, in order to economize her electrical propulsive
powers. As yet not a single craft had been sighted. The once-crowded
waterway, from whence vessels laden with timber and iron-ore for
Great Britain issued in the piping times of peace, was deserted. The
hardy mariners of Norway still kept the sea, their fearful losses in
shipping notwithstanding, but they took a different route; while the
mercantile flag of Sweden had practically disappeared from the North
Sea and its approaches.
Clad in oilskins, Donald Macquare and Noel Fordyce stood on the
navigation-platform. At the Sub's feet crouched Flirt. The dog,
having completely recovered her "sea-legs", was sniffing eagerly at
the offshore breeze, as if sighing for the land that was denied her.
From the electric stove in the galley wafted the appetizing odours of
frying bacon, to mingle with the salt-laden air.
"It looks like a dirty sky to windward," observed the Lieutenant, as
he lowered his binoculars and rubbed his eyes. It was nearing the end
of his "trick", and he was longing for his watch below. "It will be a
jolly good thing for us, if it doesn't get too thick. Bless my soul,
these neutrals may be quite all right as a whole, but goodness only
knows when there isn't a pro-Hun ashore armed with a powerful
telescope."
"In which case the news will be telegraphed to Kiel," added Fordyce.
"Hang it all, I never could understand how these fellows get the hang
of things!"
He was on the point of confiding to the Lieutenant the information of
R19's date of departure and destination, as told by Councillor
Mindiggle, when the look-out reported a sail dead ahead.
The craft was a tramp, deep in ballast. At a distance of four miles
she stood out distinctly against the approaching cloud of misty rain,
until the pall of vapour swept down and hid her from sight.
"It will be as thick as pea-soup directly," declared Macquare. "No
need to call the skipper. I'll alter helm and give yonder vessel a
chance to slip clear of us."
Accordingly R19's course was altered a few points to port, which,
allowing for the relative speed of the two vessels, ought to allow
ample margin for the submarine to pass at least two miles from the
tramp.
Presently Flirt began to bark violently at some invisible object on
the starboard hand. Macquare made a gesture of reproof, and the Sub,
placing his hand on the dog's muzzle, lifted him into the
conning-tower.
"It's that tramp's screw she heard," he remarked, as he rejoined the
Lieutenant. "Sounds quite close."
"By Jove, yes!" exclaimed Macquare. "We'd best get under."
Even as he spoke, a rift in the mist revealed the tramp at less than
a cable's length away. She had changed her course as a matter of
precaution, zigzagging in order to baffle any U-boats that might be
lurking in the vicinity. By so doing she was now passing through the
wake of R19.
"British, by Jove!" exclaimed Fordyce, catching sight of a dirty
smoke-begrimed red ensign floating proudly from the tramp's ensign
staff, while, as she slid past, he could read the words
_Talisman--Goole_ on her stumpy stern.
Even as he spoke, the mist was stabbed by a lurid flash, and a shell,
screeching through the air, passed so close to the Sub's head that he
distinctly felt the windage.
It was not a time to offer protests and explanations. Before the
tramp could let fly a second time, Fordyce had gained the
conning-tower. The water-tight lid was promptly shut and secured,
and, with more haste than grace, R19 dived for safety with the
muffled reverberations of a second report to cheer her on her way.
Through the trap-door in the floor of the conning-tower appeared the
Hon. Derek, just awakened out of sleep yet perfectly cool and
collected.
"A pretty kettle of fish, sir," reported Mr. Macquare in answer to his
superior officer's question. "A British tramp, the _Talisman_, did
her level best to blow us to blazes. Let rip at point-blank range."
"And missed," added the Lieutenant-Commander cheerfully. "Bless her
dear skipper's heart, although his gun-layer's a rotten bad shot he's
a tough old British heart of oak. Accidents will happen, Macquare, in
the best-regulated families."
"Rough luck if we'd been sent to Davy Jones by one of our own people,
sir," said the Lieutenant doggedly.
"A miss is as good as a mile," rejoined the Hon. Derek soothingly. "I
suppose the old man is dancing about on the bridge, wild with delight
at having sent a strafed U-boat to the bottom. When we return,
Macquare, we must look out for the name of the skipper of the
_Talisman_ on the Honours List of the Mercantile Marine, though not
for worlds would I disillusion the gallant old boy. By smoke! He's
pottering around to pick up the pieces."
The thud of the tramp's propeller clearly indicated that such was the
intention of the _Talisman's_ skipper. It was an audacious, almost
foolhardy piece of work. The tramp, unescorted and of comparatively
slow speed, had eased down and was circling over the spot where the
supposed U-boat was last seen.
"I'll humour the old chap," resumed the Lieutenant-Commander. "Mr.
Fordyce, pass the word for the oil in the sump to be pumped out.
That'll please him when he finds the oil floating on the surface--but
not a word, mind, to the men. It's our little joke."
It was not until the beating of the tramp's propellers had long faded
into inaudibility that R19 poked her periscope above the surface. The
fog had cleared considerably, although the air was still misty. As
far as the field of vision showed all was quiet. Up came the
submarine, the electric motors were switched off and the petrol
engines clutched into the propeller shafts. Hatches were opened and
steps taken to "con" the vessel from the navigation-platform.
A swirl in the water on the starboard hand attracted the Sub's notice
as he gained the open air. Something was converging upon the vessel's
side. Instinctively he glanced towards the bows. His supposition was
correct. In rising, the submarine had fouled the wire span connecting
a pair of drifting mines. On either hand a deadly metal cylinder was
being swung in towards the vessel's hull.
There was no time for official decorum. With a bound Noel threw
himself upon the engine-room telegraph indicator and signalled full
speed astern.
Thank Heaven, the order was obeyed promptly, even at the risk of
snapping the blades, wrecking the stuffing-box, or smashing the
clutches. With the water hissing and foaming past her sides under the
reverse action of her powerful propeller, the submarine quickly lost
way and began to gather sternway.
"Stop! Easy astern!"
Both orders were as quickly carried out as before. By this time the
two mines were bearing on the bows at a distance of less than fifty
yards away, and were gradually being drawn towards each other. So
exactly midway had R19 struck the span that, unless steps were taken
to prevent them, the metal cylinders would collide with each other
and explode within a few seconds of the fragile horns being snapped
under the impact. And at fifty yards the detonation of that double
quantity of T.N.T. would be sufficient to severely damage, if not
destroy, the submarine.
Again Fordyce signalled "Stop", then called for volunteers to clear
the fouled wire. There was no need to ask twice. From below poured
hands armed with hack-saws, cold chisels, and axes.
The rope--a 2-inch flexible-steel-wire one--was badly rusted,
nevertheless it took the bluejackets the best part of five minutes to
sever it and disentangle the newly-cut ends.
"All clear, sir," sang out a petty officer.
With feelings of thankfulness Fordyce put the indicator to half speed
astern. Gathering way, R19 slowly backed from the floating cylinders
until she was safely out of that danger zone.
"Well done, Mr. Fordyce!"
The Sub turned, flushed with pleasure, and smartly saluted. It was
the Hon. Derek who had spoken. Throughout the hazardous operation he
had stood quietly behind his young subordinate, ready to take charge
if necessity should arise. But there had been no need, and Stockdale
was too shrewd a man to "barge in" and flabbergast his youthful Sub.
"Mine right astern, sir!" shouted a seaman.
"And to starboard, sir!" announced another.
R19, in backing from one danger, found herself beset by floating
perils on all sides.