The wardroom of the Depôt ship was just emptying as the late-breakfast
party lit their pipes and cigarettes and headed for the smoking-room
next door, when a signalman brought the news in. The Commander,
standing by the radiator, took the pad from the man's hand and read it
aloud. He raised his voice for the first few words, then continued in
his usual staccato tones as the silence of his audience showed that
they were straining their ears in fear of missing a word:--
"_Lyddite_, _Prism_, _Axite_, and _Pebble_ in action last night
with six enemy destroyers--_Pebble_ sunk--fifty-seven survivors
aboard _Lyddite_--enemy lost two sunk, possibly three--_Lyddite_
with prisoners and _Prism_ with _Axite_ in tow arriving forenoon
to-day."
There was a moment's pause as the Commander handed the signal back,
and then half a dozen officers spoke at once. The Fleet-Surgeon was
not one of them. He gathered up his two juniors with a significant
glance, as one sees a hostess signal to her Division as the
dessert-talk flags, and the three vanished through the door to get to
work on their grim preparations. The Engineer officers conferred for a
minute in low tones and then followed them out. The signal had given
clearer data for the workers in flesh and bone to act on than it had
for those who work in metals, and there was nothing for the latter to
do but to get their men ready and to guess at probabilities. The
remainder of the Mess broke into a buzz of conversation: "_Axite_, she
must be pretty well hashed up; it must have been gun-fire, a torpedo
would have sunk her.... Rot! why should it? What about the _Salcombe_
or the _Ventnor_? _They_ got home.... Yes, but not from so far out,
and there's a sea running outside too.... Well, the Noorder Diep isn't
a hundred miles, and that must be where...."
The Commander beckoned the First Lieutenant to him, as that officer
was rising from his chair at the writing-table. "You'd better warn the
Gunner, Borden, that the divers may be needed; and tell my messenger
as you go out that I want to see the Boatswain and Carpenter
too--thank you." He turned to the ship's side and looked out through
the scuttle at the dancing, sunlit waters of the harbour. He had
supervised the work of preparation for assisting and patching lame
ducks more than once before, and he knew that his subordinates needed
little assistance from him. What was troubling his mind was the
question of the casualties. The _Pebble_ was gone, so there was no
need for spare hands to be provided for her, while her survivors were
actually a gain. They would not be fit for work for a bit, though, a
good few of them probably wounded, and the remainder perhaps needing
treatment after immersion in a December sea. Then the three others--it
sounded like a hard-fought action, and hard fights meant losses. That
was the worst of these destroyer actions, the casualties were mostly
good men, and it took so long to train good ratings. If only one saved
the officers and men it wouldn't really matter how many destroyers
were lost, he reflected, as he walked out of the mess towards his
cabin and the little group of Warrant and Petty officers who awaited
him by the doorway.
It was barely an hour later, and the bustle of preparation aboard the
Depôt ship was still in progress when they came in sight. The outer
forts had reported them as approaching the entrance, and the next news
was good also, for it was simply the deduction on the part of the
watching ships' companies, when they saw the big black-and-yellow
salvage tugs that had been out since dawn come chugging up harbour
alone, that the victors had disdained assistance. Then the _Lyddite_
showed her high bow and unmistakable funnels as she swung round the
entrance shoals and steadied up harbour at a leisurely ten knots. At
that distance she looked dirty and sea-worn, but intact. Close astern
of her came _Prism_ and _Axite_, and as they showed, the watchers
involuntarily caught their breaths.
The _Prism_ looked queer and foreign somehow, with no foremast, a bare
skeleton of a bridge, and a shapeless heap where the forward funnel
had stood. The _Axite_ looked just what she was--a mere battered hull,
with very little standing above the level of her deck, her stern
nearly awash, and her bow bent and torn as if some giant hand had
gripped and twisted it. As the pair of cripples neared the dock
entrance, two smaller tugs which had followed astern came hurrying up
to close on the _Axite's_ sides, while the towing hawser that had been
watched with such anxiety through three cold and stormy watches
splashed in the churned-up water under the _Prism's_ counter. The
_Prism_ increased speed slightly, and up against the blustering wind
came the faint sound of cheering from the cruisers down the harbour as
she passed them. She eased down into station astern of the _Lyddite_,
and the Yeoman of Signals on the Depôt ship's bridge shifted his
telescope from the shaking canvas of the wind-dodger to the steadier
support of a stanchion.
"What's she like--can you make 'er out?" A Leading Telegraphist had
walked out from the wireless office, and, in obvious hopes of getting
hold of the telescope, was standing at his elbow.
"Pretty sight, I don't think," replied the Yeoman grimly. "Dirty work
for the hospital there, and I reckon it's 'Port Watch look for
messmates'--all along under the bridge she's been catching it, and I
can't see--Yes, O.K.--He's up there on the bridge--_Who?_ The skipper,
of course. Mister Calton, Commander--begging his pardon. Me and him
were in the old _Cantaloup_ two years. Gawd! but ain't they been in a
dust-up! What do you say? _Lyddite?_"
He turned to look as the big destroyer passed, half-raised his glass,
and then lowered it. There was enough for his naked eye to see to
discourage him from a closer view. Her decks were crowded with men,
lying, standing, or sitting down. The white bandages showed up clearly
against the general background of dull grime, and the bandages were
many. A torpedo-tube pointing up like an A.A. gun, and a dozen or so
of splinter holes in funnel and casing, showed that some, at least, of
the wounded were her own. About the casing, between the wounded, lay
dozens of dull brass cartridge-cases, and aft--a curious touch of
triviality--two seamen and a steward were emptying boxes of smashed
glass and crockery overside. A few men waved and shouted in reply as
the Depôt ship roared a welcome across to her, but the greater number
were silent. The two scarred and blood-spotted craft swung gently in
to the jetty, where the lines of ambulances and stretchers awaited
them, and as the first heaving-lines flew, the Yeoman turned to the
Telegraphist with a look almost of pride on his dark saturnine face--
"Well, I'm ----," he said admiringly, "if that ain't swank! Did you
see 'em? Why, stiffen the Dutch--they've got new Sunday Ensigns
hoisted to come up harbour with, and"--he swung round and levelled his
glass at the _Axite_, now almost hidden in the smoke and steam of the
group of tugs around her at the lock gates--"I'm damned if she ain't
got a new one up too. Here, have a look at it, man. It's on a boathook
staff sticking up in the muzzle of the high-angle gun----"
1917.
The "liaison officer" felt distinctly nervous as his steamboat
approached the gangway. He had no qualms as to his capabilities of
carrying out the work he was detailed for--that of acting as
signals-and-operations-interpreter aboard the Flotilla leader of a
recently allied destroyer division--but the fact that he had been told
that he must be prepared to be tactful weighed heavily on his mind.
His ideas on the subject of Americans were somewhat hidebound, but at
the same time very vague. Would they spring the statement on him that
they had "come over to win the War for you," or would they refer at
once to their War of Independence? Did the Yankees hate all
Britishers, or---- His boat bumped alongside the neat teak ladder,
and he noted with a seaman's appreciation the perfectly-formed
coachwhipping and Turks' Heads on the rails. A moment later he was
standing on a very clean steel deck, gravely returning the salute of
what appeared to be a muster of all the officers in the ship.
A tall commander took a pace forward. "_Malcolm_," he said, "I'm
Captain--glad to meet you." The Englishman saluted, and they shook
hands. "My name's Jackson," he replied, and turned as the American,
taking his arm, ran through a rapid introduction to the other
officers. Each of these repeated the formula, accompanied by the quick
bow and handshake. Jackson followed suit as best he could, and began
to feel that on such formal occasions he had the makings of a real
_attaché_ or diplomatist in him.
A few minutes, and he found himself sitting in a long-chair in a
wardroom which might have been a counterpart of his own, and accepting
a long cigar from the box handed him. "Did you have a good trip
over?" he ventured.
"We sure did, and saw nix--not even a U-boat. Had a bit of a gale
first day out, but it blew off quick. But say, there wasn't a German
ship for three thousand miles. Don't you ever see some about?"
"Well, you see--er--no. They only show out now and then, and it's only
for a few hours when they do. Of course, there are plenty of Fritzes,
but they keep under most of the time--you don't see them much."
"Well, we thought it real slow, didn't we, Commander? We were just
ripe for some gunplay, but we never got a chance to pull."
Jackson looked across at the Commander and smiled. "We felt that way
for a long time, sir. But now we just go on hoping and keeping ready.
We've had so many false alarms, you see."
The Commander laughed. "That's one on you, Benson," he said. "We won't
get so excited next time we see the Northern Lights."
There was a general shout of laughter, and Jackson turned cold. This, he
thought, was a little early for him to start putting his foot in it. The
officer called Benson, however, did not appear to be about to throw over
the alliance just yet. He walked to the sideboard, and returned with a
couple of lumps of sugar in his hand. "Lootenant," he said gravely, "in
the absence of stimulants in the U.S. Navy, I can only give you what
we've got. We've no liquor aboard, but we've sure got sugar."
"Yes," said the Commander. "We're all on the water-waggon here,
whether we like the ride or not."
Jackson sat up in his chair and shed his official pose. He could, at any
rate, talk without reserve on Service subjects. "Well, sir," he said,
"I'm not a teetotaller, but it doesn't worry me to go teetotal if I've
got to. I don't worry about it if I'm in training for anything; and the
fact is--well, if there was a referendum, or something of that sort, in
the Navy as to whether we were to be compulsory teetotallers or not, I
believe the majority would vote for 'no drinks.' _I_ would, anyway, and
I'm what you'd call an average drinker."
"They didn't ask us to vote any, but if they had--in war-time--I guess
we'd have voted the same way. If you can't get it you don't want it,
and we've kind of got used to water now. And so your name's Jackson?
Any relation?"
Jackson's brain worked at high pressure. This was a poser. Sir Henry
Jackson? Stonewall? How many noted Jacksons were there? He played for
safety and replied with a negative.
"Ah, well! there's perhaps some connection you don't know of," said
the Commander encouragingly. "Which part of England are your folk
from? Birmingham. Well, of course, it's a big family.... My father
knew him well, and was with him through the Valley Campaign."