Of the mad, desperate, and, above all, glorious race into the gates of a
maritime hell Crosthwaite saw but little beyond his immediate front.
Since the British destroyers were under the fire of projectiles ranging
from 11-inch downwards, it was evident that the _Calder's_
light-armoured conning-tower would afford little protection, and if it
were hit by a heavy shell the fate of all within would be sealed. So,
standing on the starboard extremity of the bridge, the
lieutenant-commander took his craft into the second phase of the
destroyer attack.
Up to the present not a single British destroyer had been sunk, although
some had been compelled to retire owing to damage received during their
scrap with the hostile torpedo flotilla; but the good start in this
direction was no longer maintained.
A large destroyer, subsequently identified as the _Nomad_, was struck by
a huge projectile almost amidships. A rush of scalding steam, followed
by clouds of smoke, announced that the engine-room was wrecked, and that
the vessel was no longer under control.
Porting helm, the _Calder_ ran past the lee of the crippled destroyer,
the smoke from which undoubtedly saved Crosthwaite's command from severe
punishment.
For nearly half a mile the _Nomad_ carried way, until she came to a stop
between the lines. The last Crosthwaite saw of her was the destroyer,
still afloat, maintaining a desultory fire, although a stationary target
for an overwhelming number of hostile guns.
Suddenly Crosthwaite staggered, hurled sideways by an invisible force.
The guard-rail, which he was still gripping, was no longer supported by
the stanchions. Falling heavily upon the bridge, he was within an ace
of dropping overboard when a signalman gripped him by the ankles.
The lieutenant-commander regained his feet in an instant, barely
conscious of his narrow escape, for a 4-inch shell had passed so close
to him that the windage had capsized him. Crashing aft, the projectile
demolished the short mast supporting the wireless, hurling the fragments
upon the deck. The White Ensign, which had fluttered from this masthead
during the action, had blown against the mounting of the after 4-inch
gun. Although little more than a riddled piece of bunting, it was
secured by one of the men and lashed to the stump of the mast.
Hardly had the dauntless man completed his self-imposed task when
another shell struck the _Calder_ obliquely on the port bow.
Penetrating the fo'c'sle, it burst with a muffled report, but, instead
of shattering the for'ard part of the destroyer, it emitted dense clouds
of greenish-yellow smoke that eddied through the shattered plating on
the fore-deck and drifted sullenly aft.
In a second Crosthwaite realized the danger. The shell had been filled
with poisonous gas, and just at the time when the ship was getting
within torpedo-range, and the men had to direct all their energies upon
loosing the 21-inch weapons, the asphyxiating fumes threatened to put
them, at least temporarily, out of action.
With his hands clasped to his mouth and nostrils Crosthwaite awaited the
noxious vapour, hoping that the head wind caused by the rush of the
destroyer through the water would quickly disperse the poison; but with
horrible persistence the deadly smoke hovered betwixt the various
projections on deck.
He was conscious of the quartermaster and the others on the bridge
staggering, with their fingers frantically gripping their throats. The
signalman who had previously saved his commanding officer from falling
overboard was writhing in agony, clawing at whatever came to hand, until
in a frenzy he took a flying leap over the side and sank like a stone.
Left to herself, the _Calder_ began a broad sweep to starboard. As she
did so, the fumes drifted to leeward, yet not before the men standing by
the pair of torpedo-tubes were temporarily overcome by the diabolical
product of German _Kultur_.
In vain Crosthwaite attempted to rally the men. It was either now or
never, for, unless the torpedoes were fired, the opportunity would be
gone. He tried to shout, but no sound came from his tortured throat.
Between the eddying clouds of steam and smoke he could discern the
torpedo-men moving like stupefied bees.
With an effort the lieutenant-commander regained his voice. He turned
to the quartermaster, who, although still gasping for breath, had come
through the terrible ordeal with comparatively slight ill-effects.
"Keep her steady on her helm," exclaimed Crosthwaite, and, literally
tumbling down the bridge ladder, he made his way aft to the
torpedo-tubes.
Pushing aside two victims of the poison-gas, one of them the L.T.O., who
lay athwart the racer, the lieutenant-commander gripped the
training-wheel and slewed the pair of tubes until they were nearly broad
on the beam. At 2000 yards distance three large battle-cruisers
over-lapped, presenting a target nearly 1800 feet in length. To miss
such an objective seemed almost impossible.
With a wrench Crosthwaite dropped the firing-lever of the right-hand
tube. Through the thin haze that emerged from the metal cylinder, he
caught a glimpse of the gleaming, steel, cigar-shaped missile as it
leapt clear and disappeared with a mighty splash beneath the water.
Then, changing over to the left-hand tube, he sent the second weapon on
its errand of destruction.
A sudden and a totally unexpected swerve of the ship prevented
Crosthwaite from observing the result of his single-handed efforts.
Instinctively he realized that his presence was again required on the
bridge. As he hastened for'ard he almost collided with Surgeon
Stirling, who, in his shirt-sleeves, had come up from below to aid the
sufferers.
Seeing Crosthwaite stagger along with his features contorted and his
complexion showing a sickly yellow in spite of the tan, the doctor
hurried after him.
"Not this time, Doc," protested the lieutenant-commander with a wan
smile, as he lurched forward. His brain was whirling under the strain of
the awful ordeal, yet he was dimly conscious that something was amiss,
and that at all costs he must return to his post.
He was barely in time. The quartermaster was huddled in a heap at the
base of the steam steering-gear column with a ghastly wound in his
thigh. The destroyer, left to her own devices, once more was bearing
down upon one of her helpless consorts.
Thrusting the wheel hard over, Crosthwaite found that the vessel was
still under control. Almost by a hairbreadth she scraped the port
quarter of the crippled destroyer, whose decks were literally swept by
the enemy's fire, and resembled a charnel-house. Nothing could be done
to save her, for she was already on the point of foundering. Of her crew
not one visible remained alive. She had fought to the death--a typical
example of British pluck and endurance against overwhelming odds.
Her last torpedoes fired, the _Calder_ was free to make good her
escape--if she could. Receiving a couple of glancing hits as she sped
towards the shelter, she slid past the foremost of the British
battle-cruisers, receiving three hearty cheers from the crew.
The second phase of the destroyer operations was over. Although not so
successful as had been expected, owing to the formation having been
disturbed by the encounter with the German torpedo flotillas, the dash
was not without definite material gains. _Nomad_ and _Nestor_ had not
returned, and were presumed to be sunk, a surmise that subsequently
proved to be correct, since a portion of their crews were rescued by the
German torpedo-craft.
Having brought the _Calder_ safely out of the inferno, Crosthwaite's
next step was to take stock of damages and report to the commander of
his flotilla.
The wireless was by this time again made serviceable, several of the
crew having worked while under fire on setting up the aerials which had
been carried away with the demolition of the after-mast.
Others were busily engaged in putting patches on the gaping rents in the
funnel casings and stopping the shell-holes in the thin plating.
Fortunately the engine-room had escaped serious damage, only two
casualties occurring owing to an auxiliary steam-pipe being severed by a
sliver of shell.
On the whole the _Calder_ had come off lightly. The worst damage to
personnel had been caused by the gas-shell, for, before the fumes had
dispersed, six men had lost their lives and ten others had been
incapacitated by the poisonous fumes.
"She's as fit as ever she was in my department," reported
Engineer-Lieutenant Boxspanner. "Hope to goodness we shan't be ordered
to haul out of it."
"I trust not," replied Crosthwaite. "Must turn a blind eye to some of
the defects, I suppose. What did it feel like down below?"
Boxspanner shrugged his broad shoulders. It was the first time he had
been in action, his appointment to the _Calder_ being of recent date.
"It was all right after the first half-minute or so," replied the
engineer-lieutenant. "The racket at first was enough to stun a fellow.
I suppose in this job one can get used to anything. Where's Stirling,
by the by?"
"Busy," replied Crosthwaite gravely. "Come and see him at work--if you
can stick it."
Well it was that the Admiralty, with their customary promptitude to
promote the welfare of the fighting fleet, had lost no time in
appointing scores of probationary assistant surgeons to the destroyers
immediately after the outbreak of hostilities. Previously no medical
staff had been carried on these small craft. A casualty occurring on
board, and accidents in the engine-rooms, were not of unfrequent
occurrence; the patients had to rely upon the well-meant attentions of
their comrades until they were transferred either to a parent ship or to
one of the shore hospitals.
Dr. "Jimmy" Stirling was a man who took life seriously. At times he was
almost pessimistic, although there were occasions when a sudden spirit
of youthful exuberance would take complete possession of him.
In his shirt-sleeves, and with a blood-stained apron that an hour
previously had been spotlessly white tied closely under his armpits, the
surgeon was working with deliberate haste, performing a serious
operation at a speed that would have turned a hospital probationer pale
with apprehension.
The confined space which had been turned into a sick-bay reeked with
chloroform and iodoform. Wounded men were vying with each other in their
efforts to make light of their injuries, whilst those who were able to
smoke aroused the envy of their less fortunate comrades. It was
considered "good form" for a patient to utter a rough-and-ready jest at
his own case, while grim, but none the less sympathetic, words were
bestowed upon their nearest fellow-sufferers. It was a curious
physiological fact that a man who would have raved at a careless comrade
for having accidentally dropped some gear, narrowly missing his head,
greeted the information that he would lose his right arm with the
nonchalant remark: "Anyhow, when I get home on leaf my missus can't make
me dig the bloomin' allotment."
"Let's get out of this, sir," whispered the engineer-lieutenant.
"Thought it would take a lot to capsize me, but, by Jove----!"
He backed abruptly, followed by the lieutenant-commander. Stirling, deep
in his task, had not noticed their presence.
A barefooted signalman, his blackened face and scorched and torn singlet
bearing testimony to his part in the "scrap", pattered along the
shell-pitted deck, and, saluting, tendered a signal-pad to his
commanding officer.
Crosthwaite took the paper and read the message scrawled thereon in
violet pencil.
"H'm!" he muttered. "S'pose they want us out of it."
It was an order to the effect that the _Calder_ was to steam to a
certain rendezvous, fall in with one of the parent ships, transfer
wounded, and await further orders. There seemed very little possibility
of the destroyer participating in the night attack upon the German
fleet--an operation in which the swiftly-moving British vessels might
achieve greater results, even if they failed to surpass the glory they
had already acquired by their wild, tempestuous dash in broad daylight.
"Almost wish I'd let the damaged wireless go for a bit," mused
Crosthwaite as he made his way to the badly-shattered bridge.