The ship upon which Sefton found himself as an unauthorized
supernumerary was an armoured cruiser of 13,550 tons, built and
completed at Pembroke nine years previously. She was one of a class of
four that marked a new departure in naval architecture--each of her guns
being mounted singly and in a separate turret. At the time when she was
laid down she was considered one of the heaviest armed cruisers of her
day, mounting six 9.2-inch and four 7.5-inch guns. Of these, three
9.2's could be made to fire ahead, and a similar number astern, while on
either broadside she could deliver a formidable salvo from four of the
guns of heavier calibre and two of the 7.5's. With the exception of the
following year's programme of the _Minotaur_ class, the _Warrior_ and
her sister ships were the last armoured cruisers laid down by the
British Admiralty, the all-big-gun battle-cruisers simply outclassing at
one swoop the armoured cruisers of the world's navies.
Nevertheless the _Warrior_ was still a powerful unit, and calculated to
be more than a match for any German vessel of her size. Her designed
speed of a fraction over 22 knots--a rate that when necessity arose
could be exceeded--enabled her with the rest of her class to form a
valuable, hard-hitting auxiliary to the vessels of the battle-cruiser
squadrons.
While Sefton was being kitted out by an obliging brother sub-lieutenant,
a wireless message had been sent to the _Calder_ announcing the safety
of her sub-lieutenant and A.B. Brown.
Crosthwaite received the gratifying intelligence with undisguised
delight. His feelings were shared by the whole of the ship's company,
for, almost without exception, the destroyer's officers were voted a
"sound lot", and the possibility of Sefton's death in a gallant attempt
at the rescue of a lower-deck man had thrown a gloom over the ship.
As for the lieutenant-commander, his relief and gratitude to Providence
knew no bounds. Between Sefton's leap overboard and the receipt of the
_Warrior's_ message he had passed through a distressing time. Apart
from his personal regard for the sub, with whom he had shared adventures
and perils in the Near East, the fact that he had been compelled to
abandon Sefton to the vagaries of fate hit him hard. He was even
doubtful whether, with the possibilities of hostile submarines cruising
around, the armoured cruisers would risk slowing down to rescue two men
and at the same time present a splendid target for German torpedoes.
However, the deed of rescue was accomplished, and the next step to
consider was how to get Sefton and the A.B. back on the destroyer. The
former's presence was desirable, in fact essential.
In answer to the _Calder's_ lieutenant-commander's request, whether it
would be possible for Sefton to be sent back to the destroyer, the
rescuing ship replied that, should opportunity occur, the _Calder_ could
close, but that, in view of present conditions, such a step was most
unlikely.
"So you'll jolly well have to make yourself at home here, old bird,"
remarked one of the _Warrior's_ sub-lieutenants, who as a youngster had
passed out of Dartmouth at the same time as Sefton. "Suppose the trip
will do you good. Sort of marine excursion out and home, don't you
know. Nothin' doin', and never a sign of a Hun, unless it be a
'tin-fish' or two."
The _Warrior's_ sub voiced the opinion of the rest of the gun-room. He
was president of the mess and a mild autocrat over the "small fry", and
generally voted a rattling good sort by the handful of midshipmen, many
of whom, alas! were to yield up their lives in undying fame before many
hours were past.
Yet, although the whole of the personnel of the Grand Fleet were as keen
as mustard to meet the Huns, frequent and almost unvarying
disappointment had been their lot. Over and over again Beatty's
squadron had swept the North Sea without coming in contact with the
enemy, until it was the general conclusion that, until the High Seas
Fleet was actually sighted, it was of no use speculating upon the
chances of the "big scrap".
And now, on the memorable morning of Wednesday, the 31st May, the First
and Second Battle-cruiser Squadron, three light-cruiser squadrons, with
attendant destroyers, were ploughing eastward across the North Sea, with
the knowledge that the hard-hitting Battle Fleet, together with a
formidable array of cruisers and destroyers, was some distance to the
nor'ard, ready, at the first wireless call, to complete the toils thrown
around the German fleet should the latter, lured into a sense of false
security, dare to leave the mine-fields of Heligoland.
Shortly after noon the wind dropped and the water became almost calm,
save for the undulations caused by the swiftly-moving squadron. Overhead
the sun shone faintly through a thick haze, which for hours hung about
with irritating persistence.
Sefton had just commenced a game of draughts with some of the officers
who were off duty, when a messenger entered the gun-room and handed a
"chit" to the senior sub. Not until the man had gone did the young
officer break the momentous news to the others, apologizing as if the
information might unduly raise their hopes.
"I don't want to be too cock-sure, you fellows," he announced. "Looks
as if they're out this time, but----"
"I vote we go on deck," suggested a midshipman.
"And see the whole of the German fleet," added a junior watchkeeper
facetiously.
"Anyhow, there's 'General Quarters'," retorted the middy daringly as a
bugle rang out, the call being quickly repeated in various parts of the
ship, "Look alive, you fellows."
"Stick to me, Sefton," said the senior sub, snatching his telescope from
a rack and making a bolt for the door. "If there's anything to be seen
of the scrap you'll have a good chance with me. I'm fire-control, don't
you know."
Jack Sefton nodded his head in acquiescence. He was sorry that he was
not on board the _Calder_, since there was a greater possibility of the
destroyer flotillas dashing in to complete the work of the
battle-cruisers than of the armoured cruisers getting within range.
Gaining the quarter-deck, the _Calder's_ sub heard the unmistakable
baritone hum of an aerial propeller. Overhead, at a low altitude of
less than a thousand feet, a sea-plane was flying in a northeasterly
direction. By the markings on her planes and fuselage--concentric red,
white, and blue circles--Sefton recognized her as a British one. It
afterwards transpired that Sir David Beatty had ordered the _Engadine_
to send up a sea-plane for reconnaissance work, and that wireless
reports were received from the daring airmen that they had sighted four
hostile light cruisers. The latter opened a hot fire with every
quick-firer they could get to bear upon the indomitable sea-plane, the
range being less than 3000 yards, but in spite of the hail of shrapnel
the airmen gained their desired information and returned to their parent
ship.
On board the _Warrior_, as was the case with the rest of her consorts,
hands were hard at work clearing ship for action. Already the masts and
shrouds had been "frapped", or protected, by means of wire cables
wrapped round the spars and interlaced between the standing-rigging.
"A" and "B" water-tight doors were closed, armoured hatchways battened
down, and hoses led along the decks in order to quell the fire that
would inevitably break out should a hostile shell burst inside the
armoured belt. Stanchions, cowls, and all gear likely to interfere with
the training of the guns were unshipped and stowed, tons of His
Majesty's property were jettisoned, the danger of their remaining on
board being more than sufficient reason for their sacrifice.
Inside the turrets, tubs of water were provided to slake the burning
thirst of the guns' crews, for experience had proved that the acute
mental and physical strain, coupled with the acrid fumes that drift into
the confined steel spaces, produces an intense dryness of the mouth and
throat. Behind the armoured protection, stretcher-bearers and
fire-parties were preparing for their stern work.
Down below, far beneath the water-line, the fleet surgeon and his staff
were getting ready for their grim yet humane tasks. Operations have to
be performed under great disadvantages, the complexity of wounds caused
by modern shells adding to the difficulties under which the medical
staff labours. Contrast an operation in a well-ordered hospital on
shore--where perfect quietude reigns and everything is conducive to
success--with the conditions on board a war-ship in action. The
indifferent light, for the electric lamps are quivering under the
vibration of the guns; the deafening concussion overhead as the ship
gives and receives punishment; the jerky motion of the vessel as she
twists and turns to the rapid movements of the helm and quivers under
the titanic blows of hostile shells; and the probability of the ship's
bottom being shattered like an egg-shell by a powerful torpedo--all
these form but a part of the disadvantages under which the naval medical
staff labour during the progress of an action.
Literally imprisoned below the armoured deck, the grimy stokers were
preparing for the coming ordeal. Hidden from the rest of the ship's
company, they toiled like Trojans in order to raise such a terrific head
of steam as would make the cruiser "foot it" at a speed far in excess of
her nominal 22.33 knots. In action the lot of the "black squad" is
perhaps the worst on board. Knowing nothing of what is going on, they
have to work in a confined, heated steel box, shovelling coals with a
dexterity that is the outcome of months of strenuous training. Besides
the risk of torpedoes and shells there is ever the danger of the boilers
giving way under the pressure of steam, with the inevitable result--a
horrible death in a pitch-black stokehold filled with scalding steam.
And yet, for easygoing joviality and good comradeship the naval stoker
is hard to beat. He will face discomforts with a smiling face and a
cheerful heart. He will be ready to risk his life for his chum--or on
the altar of duty.
These thoughts flashed through Sefton's mind as he watched the rapid and
methodical preparation of clearing ship for action. For once the sub
realized that he was a mere spectator--a sort of pariah, dumped from a
comparatively insignificant destroyer upon a cruiser mustering a
complement of over 700 officers and men. He was aware of the fact that
he was a "deadhead"--an individual having no right to take part in the
forthcoming contest. The inaction seemed the worst part of the business
as far as he was concerned.
Presently Sefton's thoughts were interrupted by the shrill,
long-drawn-out trills of the bos'n's mates' pipes summoning the ship's
company to muster on the quarter-deck. At the double the men romped
aft--every seaman, marine, stoker, and "idler" not actually prevented by
pressure of duty elsewhere.
Since the captain could not quit the fore-bridge the assembled ship's
company was addressed by the commander. In crisp sentences of simple
brevity he explained to the men the position of affairs. At length a
big action was in progress, he announced, for a wireless message had
just come in to the effect that the battle-cruisers were already
engaging the enemy at 18,000 yards--a distance of nearly 11 land miles.
More than that, the German Battle Squadron was coming from the nor'ard,
and there was a grave possibility of the British battle-cruisers being
engaged between the enemy battleships and their battle-cruisers. In
which case, the commander hastened to explain, losses would doubtless be
severe; but it was part of the Commander-in-Chief's plan to risk certain
of his battle-cruisers in order to cut off and detain the German fleet
until the British Main Battle Squadrons got between the enemy and their
bases.
"I do not expect that we shall go into action just at present,"
concluded the commander, "but should events shape themselves all right
we'll be in the thick of it before long. And I have not the faintest
hesitation in expressing my firm belief that every man jack of us will
do his duty to King and country, and uphold the traditions of H.M.S.
_Warrior_."
With that the men were dismissed, and, all preparations having been
made, they were at liberty until the "Action Stations" sounded. That
interval was perhaps the most trying of all. Many of the ship's company
were going into action for the first time. The majority were laughing
and cutting jokes; some could be seen with grey, anxious faces as they
thought of their dear ones at home; but amongst the whole complement
there was not the faintest trace of faint-heartedness. From the captain
down to the youngest "first-class" boy the same sentiment held sway:
that the _Warrior_ would be able to acquit herself with glory and with
honour.
Through the sultry air could be faintly heard the distant and constant
rumble of heavy gun-firing. The naval action was developing, although
the engaged portions of the rival fleets were fifty or sixty miles away.
The subdued noise made a fitting accompaniment to the stirring words of
the commander.
Sefton, still remaining on the quarter-deck, could not help admiring the
steadiness with which the cruisers kept station. From time to time
hoists of bunting fluttered to the yard-arm of the flagship _Defence_,
the orders they expressed being carried out with the utmost celerity and
precision.
A lieutenant descending from the after-bridge passed along the
quarter-deck towards the companion on the half-deck.
"You're out of it, Sefton, I'm afraid," he remarked. "We've just had
another wireless. Our destroyers are giving the Huns socks. The old
_Calder_ is in the thick of it."
"Any losses?" asked Sefton, feeling ready to kick himself for being out
of the scrap.
"Don't know yet," was the reply. "I only----"
The lieutenant's words were interrupted by the blare of a bugle.
Turning on his heels he rushed forward at top speed, for at last the
rousing order "Action at the Double" was given.
In an instant all was a scene of "orderly confusion", each man running
with a set purpose. For the most part the crew were stripped to the
waist--a crowd of muscular-armed, deep-chested, clean-shaven men in the
very pink of condition. Still exchanging banter, they disappeared to
their battle-stations, eager and alert to let loose a hail of shell upon
the first hostile vessel that came within range.
"Come along, old man," exclaimed the young sub who had previously
"cottoned on" to Jack Sefton. "Now's your chance if you want to see the
fun."
The two junior officers made their way for'ard, past the starboard guns
in their isolated and closely-sealed steel turrets, until they reached
the foremast.
"Up with you," said Sefton's companion laconically.
Sefton agilely ascended to the dizzy perch known as the fire-control
platform. The other sub followed quickly at his heels, squeezed through
the narrow aperture in the floor of the enclosed space, and slammed to
the metal hinged cover.
"At last!" he exclaimed gleefully.
Sefton only nodded in complete accord. A clock on the after side of the
steel wall indicated 5.45. A glance to the deck a hundred feet below
showed no sign of life. There was nothing to show that confined within
that double-wedge-shaped hull were close upon seven hundred human
beings, all with one set purpose, as the thirteen thousand tons of
dead-weight forged ahead at full speed towards a distant blurr just
visible through the ever-varying haze.
Suddenly the _Defence_ opened fire with her for'ard pair of 9.2's,
quickly following with her 7.5's. The ball had opened.
"Fifteen eight hundred, sir," reported one of the range-finding officers
within Sefton's hearing.
Rapidly yet smoothly the _Warrior's_ bow guns rose until Sefton could
see their muzzles showing like oval-shaped cavities against the
dull-grey painted chases. For a second or two only the weapons hung
seemingly irresolute.
Then with a concussion that shook the ship the guns sent their missiles
hurtling through the air, while clouds of acrid-smelling smoke, black,
white, and brown in hue, drifted rapidly across the deck.
At last the _Warrior_ had her chance--and she was taking it with a
vengeance.