The Captain nodded again; Jarvis shouted out orders; the boat's bows
were shoved off, the engines thumped, and the picket-boat, starting on
her stormy passage to Spithead, bumped the steps with her stern--the
last time, had she known it, that she would ever touch England.
The crew dived down below under the fore peak and shut the hatch on top
of them, for they knew well what was coming. It came right enough.
Directly the picket-boat left the shelter of the harbour mouth she began
to reel and stagger as she steamed along Southsea beach, past the ends
of the deserted piers, with the sea on her beam, washing over her and
jostling her. Then she turned round the Spit Buoy, and head on to the
wind and rain, plunged her way through the short seas, diving and
lifting, throwing up clouds of spray which smacked loudly against the
oilskins of the midshipman at the wheel and the coxswain hanging on by
his side.
As one wave came over the bows, rushed aft along the engine-room sides
and swirled round their feet, and its spray, tossed up by the fo'c'sle
gun-mounting and by the funnel, covered them from head to foot, Jarvis
roared: "Better ease her a bit, sir."
But the Orphan was enjoying himself hugely. He knew the old boat; he
knew exactly what she could "stand", and he was not going to ease down
until it was absolutely necessary, or until Captain Macfarlane made him;
and the Captain was still sitting in the stern-sheets, tugging,
absent-mindedly, at his pointed yellow beard, apparently having
forgotten where he was, and that if only he went into the cabin he could
keep dry.
The picket-boat throbbed and trembled and shook herself, butted into a
wave which seemed to bring her up "all standing", swept through it or
over it, then charged into another; and as the battered remnants of the
waves flung themselves in the Orphan's face and smacked loudly against
his oilskins he only grinned, shook his head, and peered ahead from
beneath the turned-down brim of his sou'wester.
Jarvis, the coxswain, was not enjoying himself. He hated getting
wet--that meant "a bout of rheumatics", and he had a "missus and six
kids".
Gradually the picket-boat fought her way out to the black-and-white
chequered mass of the Spit Fort, until the four funnels and long, grey
hull of the _Achates_ showed through the rain squalls beyond.
A solitary steamboat, on her way ashore, came rushing towards them--a
smother of foam, smoke, and spray; and as she staggered past, only a few
yards away, with the following seas surging round her stern, Orpen waved
a hand to the solitary figure in glistening oilskins at her wheel--a
midshipman "pal" of his from another ship--who waved back cheerily and
disappeared to leeward as a squall swept down between the two boats.
"A nice little trip he'll have, off, sir--if he don't come back soon,"
the coxswain shouted when the last wave's spray had run off the brim of
his sou'wester and he'd caught his breath. "It's breezin' up every
minute, sir!"
Once past the Spit Fort, the picket-boat was in deeper water; the seas
became longer, not so steep, and she took them more easily. Orpen
needed only one hand now to keep her on her course, and in ten minutes
he steered her under the stern of the _Achates_, and brought her
alongside the starboard quarter.
The Captain, dripping with water, jumped on the foot of the ladder as a
wave swung the picket-boat's stern close to it. Half-way up the ladder
a sudden humorous thought struck him, and, bending down, he called out:
"You did not ease down all the time, did you, Mr. Orpen?"
"No, sir," Orpen sang back, grinning with the happiness of everything.
He didn't worry in the least--so long as the Captain didn't mind--that
he had, by forcing his boat through the seas, wetted him to the skin,
and kept him wet for the last twenty minutes.
The officer of the watch shouted "Hook on!" and the picket-boat was
hauled ahead under the main derrick, until the big hook dangling from
the "purchase" swung above the boat. The crew made the bow and stern
lines fast; Fletcher, the old stoker, drew himself up on deck and
lowered the funnel, steam roared away from the "escape"; one seaman
struggled with the ring of the boat's slings, holding it chest-high;
another waited his opportunity, when a wave lifted the picket-boat, to
seize the big hook hanging above him; the ring was slipped over it; the
midshipman waved his hand and shouted; the slings tautened as the order
"up purchase and topping lift" was given; a last wave lopped over the
bows, and with a jerk she was hoisted clear of the water and quickly
swung inboard.
Up on the quarter-deck the Captain was talking to the Commander--a wiry
little man with a weather-beaten face and a grim, hard mouth. "Same old
job, sir?" he asked.
The Captain nodded ruefully. "It's all the poor old _Achates_ is fit
for."
"You're pretty well soaked, sir. Rather a wet passage off?"
"I forgot to go into the cabin," the Captain laughed.
"We're ready for sea, sir. I shortened in, as you were rather late."
"Was I?" the Captain's eyes twinkled. "Right you are! I'll be up again
in a minute. I must get into dry things, or the Fleet Surgeon will be
on my tracks"--and he disappeared below.
In half an hour the _Achates_ was under way and steaming out into the
Channel and the gale.
This ended her week's "rest"--the second "rest" since the war broke out,
six months before. Now she was off again to the North Sea, with its
constant gales, its mine-fields, its enemy submarines, and the grim
delight of frequent hurried coalings.
It was not a very pleasing prospect.
*CHAPTER II*
*The Gun-room of the "Achates"*
Having seen his picket-boat safely landed in her crutches on the booms,
the Orphan dived down below to the gun-room to dry himself in front of
the blazing stove there.
The gun-room was a long, untidy place on the starboard side of the
main-deck, just for'ard of the after 6-inch-gun casemate. A long table,
covered with a red cloth, of the usual Service pattern, and rather more
than usually torn and stained with grease, occupied most of the deck
space, and was now laden with plates, cups and saucers, and, down the
middle, in one gorgeous line, tins of jam, loaves of bread, fat pats of
butter, and slabs of splendidly indigestible cake.
Long benches, covered with leather cushions, were fixed each side of it,
whilst a few chairs, in various stages of decay, were drawn up round the
stove and the upset copper coal-box. The after bulkhead of this
sumptuous abode was occupied by midshipmen's lockers--rows of them one
above the other--and from the half-open locker doors peeped boots and
books, woollen helmets, sweaters, and safety waistcoats.
Along the foremost bulkhead was a corticine-covered sideboard with
drawers for knives, forks, and spoons, cupboards for bottles, and a cosy
gap for a barrel of beer. Above the sideboard, at either end of it,
there were two little sliding-doors in the bulkhead, for the plates and
food to be passed in from the pantry beyond, and for the dirty plates to
be passed out. Between these two sliding-hatches, pictures of beautiful
ladies taken from the last Christmas Number of the Sketch had been
gummed on to the bare expanse of dirty-white paint, and gave an air of
brightness and refinement to an otherwise somewhat depressing interior.
The outer bulkhead--the outer side--the ship's side--had been
white--once. Along it were five scuttles, at present closely screwed
up, and the tail ends of waves occasionally swished angrily across them.
In the spaces between these scuttles, war maps, most of them torn and
ragged, had been pasted to the iron-work, and one or two pin-flags still
managed to hold fast, though the vast array that had once fluttered
across them had long since disappeared.
At each end of the inner bulkhead was a door leading out into the
"half-deck", and between them were more lockers, the roaring, smoking
stove, its brass chimney, and the upset coal-box. Behind the brass
chimney hung a tattered green-baize notice-board on which were pinned a
few dusty long-forgotten gun-room orders; whilst from hooks above it
hung a cheap alarum clock and five damaged wrist-watches, each in its
strap, and each labelled with an official report of the "scrap" during
which it had met its honourable fate.
Newspapers and magazines littered untidily the corticine-covered deck; a
gramophone box, a couple of greatcoats, and a green cricket bag lay
piled in one corner near the lockers; some sextant boxes and two pairs
of sea-boots filled another.
Overhead, between the deck beams, wooden battens were fixed, and above
them squeezed a motley assortment of greatcoats, golf-bags, cricket
pads, and oilskins. Almost anywhere in the gun-room you could put up
your hand without looking, and pull down an oilskin or a greatcoat,
which, of course, was most convenient, unless you pulled down half a
dozen golf-clubs on your head at the same time, when naturally the
convenience was not so noticeable.
When the Orphan came in, throwing his wet sou-wester and oilskin into
the corner on top of the gramophone box, the only other gun-room officer
there was the "China Doll"--the Assistant Clerk. Only just "caught" he
was, a very youthful young gentleman of, so far, unblemished reputation,
with a pink-and-white face, and a trick of opening and shutting his very
big and very blue eyes so exactly like a doll that he had been
christened "China Doll" directly he had joined the Honourable Mess.
He was engaged busily toasting bread in front of the stove with the long
gun-room toasting-fork, and this was probably his most important duty on
board--the duty of making toast for seven-bell tea; the first piece for
the Sub-lieutenant, the second for the senior snotty, and the third for
that very senior officer--his very senior officer--the Clerk--Uncle
Podger.
He had just finished the first piece as the Orphan entered, and looked
up, blinking his eyes excitedly.
"What's the news, Orphan? Did the Captain tell you what we're going to
do?"
"Late again, China Doll; five minutes after seven bells, and only one
piece of toast ready; you'll catch it when the others come along."
In spite of his protests the Orphan grabbed that piece of toast,
buttered it and began eating it, standing in front of the stove whilst
the China Doll hurriedly began to toast another slice, between the
Orphan's legs, and implored him for news of where the ship was going,
and what she was to do. But the Orphan was much too busy eating to take
any notice; and just as the first slice disappeared and he was licking
his fingers, he heard a clattering of sea-boots down the ladder from the
deck, and as four dripping snotties poured in, he seized the
toasting-fork, pushed the China Doll on one side, and calmly finished
toasting the second slice.
These four new-comers were the "Pink Rat", "Bubbles", the "Hun", and
Rawlins. The Pink Rat was the senior snotty--a small-sized youngster
whom anyone could spot as the Pink Rat, because he had a thin, sharp,
ferrety-looking face, very pink complexion, beady eyes, prominent teeth,
and long mouse-coloured hair brushed straight back from his forehead and
plastered down with grease. Bubbles was half as big again as the Pink
Rat, with a fat, red, honest face, creased with continual chuckling, and
a fat, red neck which always seemed to swell over his collars. He had
something wrong with his nose, and couldn't breathe through it very
well, so that when he was laughing--he generally was--he used to throw
his head back, open his mouth to breathe, and make the most
extraordinary bubbling noises. The Hun, the third to enter, looked a
very gentle snotty, very refined and quiet--quiet, that is, compared
with the others. He was not big or strong; but when he once was
"roused" he would always join the weaker side in a "scrap", and then
became so violently excited that whatever he gripped he gripped with all
his might--like a wild cat. He had nearly choked Bubbles once; and the
Pink Rat never forgot how, at another time, he had nearly pulled out a
handful of his hair. He always apologized afterwards. Rawlins, whose
proper name was Rawlinson--the last of these four--was a brawny youth
with an odd hatchet-shaped head, quite as good-natured as Bubbles, and
the least talkative member of the Honourable Mess. He was always
willing to look out for a pal's "watch" or boat duty, in itself enough
to make anyone very popular.
The Pink Rat, Bubbles, and Rawlins, seeing no toast waiting for them,
dashed at the China Doll, charged him into a corner, threw their wet
oilskins over him, and fell in a heap on top.
"Toast must be ready!" they yelled as they allowed him to get up.
"I can't make it fast enough when the Orphan's here, alone; look at
him--that's his second."
The Orphan had just taken a huge bite out of the new piece; with a rush
they threw themselves on him; in the melee of feet, legs, and chairs the
China Doll captured the toasting-fork, stuck another bit of bread on it,
and crouched in front of the fire again.
The general scramble was terminated by the noise of the pantry hatch
sliding back, and an enormous, purple-faced marine servant, in his
shirt-sleeves, pushed in a big teapot.
"Come along, Barnes, cut us some more bread; open a tin of 'sharks';
where've you put my biscuits?" they called at him.
By this time the third piece of toast was done to a turn; and the Pink
Rat, in the absence of the Sub, on watch, was just going to claim it,
when in came Uncle Podger--the Clerk--a broad-shouldered, squat youth,
with a breezy, cheery countenance, and ruffled hair, who had been
promoted to the exalted rank of Clerk exactly three weeks before, and
had, therefore, been just a year and three weeks in the Service.
His arrival was greeted with shouts of "Uncle Podger, your minion is
slack again at the toast business. The China Doll must be beaten."
The Assistant Clerk dodged the Pink Rat and wriggled free, squealing out
that this piece was for the Sub.
"He'll beat me if it isn't ready. He'll be down from the bridge in a
minute," he laughed, and took shelter behind his superior officer,
explaining that "he'd done one for the Sub, and the Orphan ate that;
another for the Pink Rat, and the Orphan had eaten that too; the Sub
must have this, mustn't he?"
"Then this is the third," Uncle Podger said with mock gravity. "You
were wrong, my young subordinate, very wrong indeed, to give away those
other pieces; this one is mine." He gently removed the beautifully
browned bread from the prongs of the fork.
"Yes--sir," said the China Doll, dropping his eyelids and pretending to
be very humble.
"By the King's Regulations and Gun-room Instructions, there can be no
doubt about it, can there?"
"No--sir; no possible doubt whatever--no possible, probable, possible
doubt whatever."
The Clerk, glaring majestically at his subordinate officer's
familiarity, promptly proceeded to butter and then to eat the slice;
whilst the others, crowding round the stove with bits of bread on the
ends of knives, tried their best to toast them.
Then the Sub did come in--a man of medium height, shoulders broader than
Uncle Podger's, a complexion tanned by exposure to the wind and rain,
black hair over a broad forehead, thick black eyebrows over deep-set
grey eyes which had a knack of looking through and through anyone he
spoke to, a thin Roman nose with a bridge that generally had a bit of
the skin off (the remains of his last "scrap"), firm upper lip, a
tremendous lower jaw, and a neck like a bull. He came in with his
swaggering gait and aggressive shoulders, unbuttoning his dripping
oilskin and roaring loudly.
"What ho! without! bring hither the toasted crumpet, the congealed juice
of the cow, and we will toy with them anon! Varlets, disrobe me, for I
am weary with much watching."
"Hast a savoury dish prepared for me, you pen-driving incubus, you blot
on the landscape?" he roared again at the China Doll, who stood with
eyes opening and shutting and mouth wide open, watching two of the
snotties hauling off the Sub's oilskin.
"Where's my toast?" he roared ferociously.
"Here, sir," and the Assistant Clerk patted the Orphan's stomach, and
fled for safety to the ship's office, where he knew he would be safe
from instant death, because the Fleet Paymaster, though he would "scrap"
with anyone, at any time, anywhere else, would not allow any skylarking
there; nor would the stern Chief Writer, whose sanctum it was; and they
had to keep friends with the Chief Writer, or never a pen-nib or a piece
of blotting-paper would they get when they ran short of these things.
Two more snotties came into the gun-room after the China Doll had
escaped.
These were the "Lamp-post" and the "Pimple", the tallest and the
shortest in the Mess--the Pimple a little chap with a broad flat face,
and a tiny red nose in the middle of it. He was the Navigator's
"doggy", and that communicative and ingenious officer was always giving
him the latest news--news which he, more often than not, invented
himself. The joy of the Pimple's existence was to have some "news" to
tell the others. He was a bully in a very small way, and extremely
deferential to the Sub and the ward-room officers.
The Lamp-post was a tall, stooping snotty with sloping shoulders; his
clothes were always too small for him, and his long thin arms and legs
were always in his own way and in that of everyone else. Set him down
at a piano and he was marvellous; the joy of his life was to be asked to
play the ward-room piano. He could play anything he had ever heard; and
inside his aristocratic head were more brains than the rest of the
snotties possessed between them, the only one who did not know that
being himself.
The whole of the Honourable Mess--with the exception of the escaped
China Doll--being now assembled, seven-bell tea pursued its usual
course--a cross between a picnic and a dog-fight--until the bugle
sounded "man and arm ship", and there was a hurried scramble for
oilskins and caps as all, except Uncle Podger, dashed away to their
stations.
The ship had now cleared the Isle of Wight and felt the force of the
gale. She began to pitch and roll heavily as the heavy seas threw
themselves against her starboard bow and rushed along her side.
A minute or two after the "man and arm ship" bugle had sounded, the
China Doll strolled jauntily in and started afresh with his afternoon
tea.
"When you, Mr. Assistant Clerk, have served as long as I have,"
commenced Uncle Podger gravely, "you may perhaps learn to realize that
cheeking your seniors is punishable by death, or such other punishment
as is hereinafter mentioned."
"Pass us the sugar, Podgy, there's a good chap," grinned that very
insubordinate officer, as a lurch of the ship threw the sugar-basin into
the Clerk's lap.
"Man and arm ship" having passed off satisfactorily, the ship went to
"night defence" stations, and the bugle sounded "darken ship".
Barnes, the purple-faced marine servant, still in his shirt-sleeves,
came in and solemnly closed down the dead-lights, screwing the steel
plates over the glass scuttles, and then proceeded to clear away the
debris of seven-bell tea.
Most of the snotties now trooped down from the upper deck to warm
themselves round the stove.
*CHAPTER III*
*Ordered to the Mediterranean*
Up above, under the fore bridge, the Orphan, looking like an undersized
elephant, with all his warm clothes under his oilskins, tramped from
port to starboard, and back again round the conning-tower. The crews of
his four 6-pounders were clustered round their guns, hunched up in all
sorts of winter clothing. Many of them wore their duffel jackets with
great gauntleted gloves drawn up over their sleeves, and had already
pulled the hoods of their jackets over their heads, giving them the
appearance of Eskimo or Arctic explorers; the others were in oilskins
padded out with jerseys, jumpers, flannels, and thick vests.
Once issue warm clothing to a bluejacket and never will he leave it off,
whatever the temperature, unless he is made to do so.
The chirpy little gunner's mate had reported "all correct, sir, guns
cleared away, night-sight circuits switched on, sir, and four rounds a
gun ready."
The Orphan had reported himself to the officer of the watch, on the
bridge above him, and now had nothing to do, for the best part of two
hours, but walk up and down and keep warm.
"They tells me that one of 'em submarines was nosing round these parts
two days ago, sir," one of his petty officers said, as he stopped at one
gun, looked through the telescope sight, and tested the electric
circuit. "It ain't much weather for the poor murdering blighters."
It was not. Darkness was rapidly closing in, and the gale howled
angrily out of the west, driving masses of dark rain-clouds and a heavy
sea before it.
The _Achates_ dipped her fo'c'sle constantly, and when she lifted and
shook herself, the spray shot up far above her bridge screens.
The Orphan and his guns' crews on the wind'ard side would feel the ship
quiver as a wave thudded against the casemate below them, and then had
just time to duck their heads before millions of icy particles of spray
soused viciously over them.
Presently the Orphan took shelter in the lee of the conning-tower and
leant moodily against it, thinking of the warmth and gaiety of the dance
he had been at the night before, also of a certain little lady in white
and blue.
In peace time it is depressing enough to leave a cosy harbour, and face
a wild winter's night in the Channel; but in war time the chance of
blowing up on a mine and the risk of being torpedoed make the strain
very considerable.
For the first night and the first day or two, most people are inclined
to be rather "jumpy"; though afterwards this feeling wears off quickly,
and one leaves everything to "fate" and ceases to worry.
Only a few days before, Germany had announced to the world the
commencement of her submarine blockade of the English coast, so the
Channel was probably already swarming with submarines; though even the
Orphan, depressed and miserable as he was then, could not have imagined
that these submarines had orders to sink merchant ships and mail
steamers at sight and without warning, and that a civilized nation had
sunk so low, nineteen hundred years after Christ was born into the
world, as to plot the whole-sale murder of inoffensive women and
children.
But he was miserable enough without knowing that, and opening up his
oilskin coat, practised blowing up his safety waistcoat. Then he
wondered whether his guns' crews had their swimming-collars with
them--as was ordered--and went from gun to gun, dodging the spray, to
find out.
It was quite dark now, the foc's'le and the turret below were invisible,
and he had to grope his way along to find the guns' crews by hearing
them talk or stumbling against them.
One or two of the men had lost their collars; another had burst his
trying how big he could blow it; others had left them down below in
their kit-bags or lashed in their hammocks.
Plunky Bill, the cheeky A.B. belonging to the picket-boat, was the only
one who had his. The gunner's mate explained that "Plunky Bill 'ad a
sweet'eart in Portsmouth what was fair gone on 'im, and 'ad made 'im
promise to always wear 'is collar".
Plunky Bill evidently thought he had a grievance, and growled out that
"'E wasn't going to be bothered with young females, not 'im; a-making
'im look so foolish-like".
"Well, they ain't no use, nohow," the gunner's mate grunted, jerking a
thumb towards the heavy sea.
"Any news, sir?" the gunner's mate shouted, when he and the Orphan had
regained the lee of the conning-tower, round which solid icy spray
swished almost continuously. "The Ruskies are giving it to them
Austrians in the neck, proper like, ain't they, sir?"
"Didn't hear any," the miserable Orphan shouted back.
"D'you know where we're off to?" the other asked.
"North Sea again," the Orphan told him.
The gunner's mate had no use for the North Sea--never wanted to see it
again, and said so in blood-curdling language.
"What about the Dardanelles, sir?" he asked a moment later. "That's the
place I'd like to be in. There's a sight of old 'tubs' gone out there.
Any news, sir?"
But the Orphan had heard none, and climbed up on the bridge above to
have a yarn with the midshipman of the watch--the Pimple.
He was full of schemes for "ragging" the China Doll.
"Patting your 'tummy', Orphan; that was cheek if you like! and the Sub
didn't like it either."
The Pimple was very deferential to the Sub--rather too much so; what the
Sub did and what he said made up most of the Pimple's daily existence.
"He'd like us to take it out of the China Doll, wouldn't he?"
"Don't be an ass. Let the China Doll alone--it's too beastly wet and
cold to bother about him. What about that cake you 'sharked' off the
table?" So the Pimple, ever ready to ingratiate himself with anyone,
produced a big wedge of gun-room cake out of his greatcoat pocket, and
the two of them, crouching under the weather screens, munched away
silently.
It was so dark that they could not see the look-out man, who was holding
the brim of his sou'wester over his eyes to shield him from the rain and
the spray, and trying to pierce the blackness of the stormy night in
front of him. Both snotties were startled by a sudden cry from him:
"Something a-'ead, sir! on the starboard bow, sir!" Another look-out
also spotted something; everyone tried to see it; the officer of the
watch dashed to the end of the bridge and peered through his
night-glasses; the gunner's mate, down below, could be heard shouting to
the guns' crews to "close up"; the breeches of the guns snapped to as
they were loaded; and the Orphan, stuffing the remnants of the cake in
his pocket, scrambled down the ladder.
"There it is, sir! There! there!--I can see it!' came excitedly out of
the darkness. Everyone thought of submarines.
"Just like one, sir!" a signalman bawled to the officer of the watch,
who yelled to the Quartermaster "hard-a-port", and rushed into the
wheel-house to see that he did it.
At that moment a bobbing light began flickering out of the darkness
ahead--a signal lamp.
"It's the challenge, sir," the signalman shouted.
"All right; reply; bring her on her course, Quartermaster. Starboard
your helm, hard-a-starboard!" shouted the officer of the watch coolly;
and as the _Achates'_ bows swung back again, she swerved past a long,
black object down below in the water, with its twittering signal light
tossed about like a spark from a chimney on a dark night, and by that
faint light they could just see the outline of three funnels before the
light was shut off and everything disappeared.
It was only a patrolling destroyer. One could not see her rolling, or
the seas breaking over her, but one could realize the horrible
discomfort aboard her.
"Poor devils!--a rotten night to be out in--we nearly bumped into her,"
thought the officer of the watch, jumping to the telephone bell from the
Captain's cabin, which was ringing excitedly.
"Nothing, sir; a patrol destroyer; had to alter course to clear her.
No, sir, the wind is steady, sir."
It was six o'clock now--four bells clanged below--the first dog-watch
was finished, and presently the Pink Rat came up to relieve the Orphan.
"Jolly slack on it!" grumbled the Orphan as he bumped into him and dived
down below.
The easiest way aft was along the mess deck--the upper deck was so
dark--and as the Orphan passed through one of the stokers' messes he saw
Fletcher, the old stoker of his picket-boat, sitting at a mess table,
all alone, under an electric light, his face buried in his hands, and a
Bible before him.
"What's the matter, Fletcher? you look jolly mouldy," he said, stopping
at the end of the table. "What's the matter? Bad news?"
"Yes, sir," he said gently, standing up, one hand pushing his gold
spectacles back on his nose, the other marking the place in the book.
"A letter from my wife. Our last boy's been killed in France, sir.
That's the third; he was a corporal, sir."
His old, refined, tired face looked so abjectly miserable that the
Orphan did not know what to say. "Come and get a drink. That'll buck
you up," he stuttered.
But Fletcher shook his head. "I'm an abstainer, sir; thank you very
much." And the snotty, muttering "I'm sorry", went away along the rest
of the noisy, crowded mess deck towards the gun-room.
There was comparative quiet there. The Sub and Uncle Podger were
sitting in front of the stove, reading.
"You know old Fletcher--the stoker of my boat; he's frightfully
miserable; he's sitting down in his mess looking awful; he's just heard
that his last son's been killed; I wish we could do something for him.
The letter must have come when I brought off the postman."
"How about a drink?" asked the Sub, scratching his head. "I _am_
sorry."
"Who's that?" asked Uncle Podger; "that old chap with the gold specs?"
The Orphan nodded.
"Fancy having to stick it out--all the misery of it--in a mess deck,
with hundreds of chaps cursing and joking all round you," the Sub said.
"I don't see what we can do to help him."
"You've got a cabin," Uncle Podger suggested. "Get him down in it; shut
him in for an hour. What he wants most is to be alone."
"Right oh!" said the Sub, springing to his feet. "I've got the first
watch; he can stay there till 'pipe down';" and he sent Barnes, the
purple-faced marine, to find Fletcher and tell him that the
Sub-lieutenant wanted him at once in his cabin.
The Sub, swinging his mighty shoulders, stalked down to his cabin, and
presently there was a knock outside, and Fletcher peered in. "Yes,
sir?"
"I've just heard, Fletcher," the Sub said, holding out his hand. "We
are all very sorry; you'd like to be by yourself for a while. Stay here
till 'pipe down'; no one shall come near you."
He pushed the old man down in the chair, drew the door across, and went
into the gun-room.
A few minutes later the Pimple, who had been to his chest, outside the
Sub's cabin, came in.
"Old Fletcher's blubbing like anything," he said. "I heard him."
"Get out of it, you little beast!" roared out the Sub. "Get out of the
gun-room till dinnertime. Who told you to go sneaking round?" and Uncle
Podger got in a well-judged kick which deposited the miserable Pimple on
the deck outside.
The Orphan had the "middle" watch that night, so he turned into his
hammock early, and was roughly shaken before it seemed to him that he
had been to sleep a minute.
"Still raining?" he grunted to the corporal of the watch who had called
him, as he climbed out and hunted round for his clothes.
"Raining and blowing 'orrible!"
He groped his way for'ard, only half awake, stumbling on the unsteady
slippery deck-plates, barking his shins against a coaming, and bumping
into the rest of the watch as they came up from the lighted mess deck
like blind men. He "took over" from the snotty of the first watch, and,
as soon as his sleepy eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, began
pacing up and down across the narrow deck.
The gale still howled wildly through the fore shrouds, the wet signal
halyards still flapped noisily against each other, and the rain still
came driving under the bridge; but by this time the _Achates_ had
altered course and was running up-Channel, so had the seas on her
starboard quarter, and though she was rolling heavily no spray came over
her. That was one thing to be thankful for, the Orphan thought, as he
looked into the utter blackness ahead of him.
Presently he leant against the conning-tower. But there was nothing for
his eyes to rest on, and the screaming of the gale and the roaring of
the rushing seas mingling together to make one continual, tumultuous
clamour in his ears, lulled him nearly to sleep.
He started--he thought he was dancing with the little lady in white and
blue--grinned to himself, and went up on the bridge to have a yarn with
Bubbles, who was now the midshipman of the watch; tracked him by his
laugh and his snorting noise; doubled up he was, at some yarn the
Navigating Lieutenant was telling him--he always laughed long before a
yarn came to an end!
"The ass jumped on to the top of the conning-tower--got an arm round the
periscope tube, and began banging away at the periscope with a hammer!"
the Navigator was shouting as the Orphan came up. (Bubbles threw his
head back and roared.) "He'd only got in a few whacks when the old
submarine began to dive; down went the conning-tower and the periscope,
and the last that was seen of him was a hand and a hammer giving one
last whack!"
Bubbles choked and snorted with laughter.
"What was it--a German submarine--was he drowned--did they catch the
submarine?" the Orphan asked.
"Yes, they did. It had been badly hit before. We swept for it, and
found it three days later, and the brave ass was still clinging to the
periscope tube with his feet twisted round the conning-tower rail."
"Who was he?" gasped Bubbles when he could stop laughing.
"No one in particular, only the deck hand of a trawler," the Navigator
said, in his cynical way.
Mr. Meredith, the officer of the watch, a tall, good-looking Naval
Reserve lieutenant with a weather-beaten face, and rather bald-headed,
came up. "It's five bells, you fellows. How about some cocoa? I've
got a tin of gingerbreads."
"That's the ticket, old chap!" the Navigator cried, and Bubbles was sent
off to make the cocoa and bring it up to the chart-house.
Ten minutes later, the cheery chart-house was filled with the fragrant
odour of cocoa, the Navigator's charts had been rolled aside; two were
sitting on the table, the other on the settee which was the Navigator's
bed at sea, all with steaming cups of cocoa in their hands.
"Where's the 'War Baby'? Go and fetch the War Baby," the Navigator
shouted; so off Bubbles went, the light going out as the door slid back,
and coming on again as it closed and "made" the electric circuit.
Presently, in came the youngest-looking thing in soldiers anyone ever
saw, with a face as pink and white as the China Doll's, and the first
buds of a tiny moustache on his upper lip.
"It's perfectly damnable outside," he piped in his girlish voice, as he
seized a biscuit and a cup of cocoa.
"Hullo!" sang out the Navigator, as they all heard a knock on a door
beneath them; "there's someone banging at the Skipper's door." (The
Captain, when at sea, slept in a tiny cabin immediately beneath the
chart-house and above the shelter deck.)
They heard the Captain's voice calling "Come in"; and the Navigator,
seizing his glasses, and singing out that "the Captain would be up on
the bridge in a jiffy--he always does if anyone wakes him," went out,
followed by the others.
In a minute the Captain came up, shouting for him.
"Here I am, sir."
He seized the Navigator by the arm excitedly--the Captain was seldom
anything but calm--and drew him into the chart-house. "Read this," he
said, snapping his jaws together and sticking out his little pointed
beard, as the door was closed and the light glared out.
The Navigator read: "_Achates_ is to proceed with dispatch to Malta,
calling at Gibraltar for coal if necessary."
"That means the Dardanelles, sir! Finish North Sea, sir?"
Captain Macfarlane looked down at him with twinkling eyes and smiled
happily.
In five minutes' time the _Achates_ had ported her helm and was on her
new course; the news had flown round the bridge, been bellowed down
below to the guns' crews, and shouted down the voice-pipes to the
engine-room.
"We're off to Malta!--the Dardanelles!" and everyone who passed the good
news added, "Finish North Sea. Thank God!"
The sober, obsolete old _Achates_ seemed to know where she was bound.
On her new course she once more faced the gale and the seas, diving and
pitching, shaking and trembling, throwing the wild spray crashing
against the weather screens, flying over the bridge and pattering
against the funnels.
What cared she, or anyone aboard her, however wildly the gale blew!
*CHAPTER IV*
*The Bombardment of Smyrna Forts*
The _Achates_ arrived at Gibraltar on the fourth morning out from
Spithead, and went alongside the South Mole to coal, just as the warm
Mediterranean sun rose above the top of the grand old rock.
The gun-room officers---everybody, in fact--were in the highest spirits.
It was grand to have left behind the dreary, cold English winter, and it
was grander still to be on the way to the Dardanelles. Best of all,
they could now go to sea without worrying about submarines and mines.
Two days from Gibraltar the daily wireless telegram from England told
them that the forts at the entrance to the Dardanelles had been
silenced, and that landing-parties were being sent ashore to demolish
them.
"Why couldn't they have waited? We shall be too late; we shall miss all
the fun," they cried sadly, down in the gun-room; "just come in for the
tail end of everything; they'll be up at Constantinople by the time we
get there; what sickening rot!"
"If you'd seen as much fighting as I have," Uncle Podger said
solemnly--he'd only been a year in the Service, and seen
none--"you'd----"
But he wasn't allowed to finish. They shouted:
"Dogs of war! Out, Accountant Branch!" and rolled him and the China
Doll on the deck until Barnes banged the trap-door with the
porridge-spoon to let them know that breakfast was ready.
At Malta there was another hurried coaling.
It was here they heard that the _Bacchante_, their chummy ship--a sister
ship--the ship which had been next to them in the North Sea patrol--had
already passed through Malta bound for the Dardanelles.
It was, of course, the Pimple who heard this first, and who climbed down
into a coal lighter alongside to tell the Sub. The Sub, black and
grimy, grinned. "We'll get a chance to knock spots out of them at
'soccer', somewhere or other," he said, joyfully rubbing some of the
coal-dust on his sleeve over the Pimple's excited and fairly clean face.
"I hope they haven't found out about the sea-gulls," the Pimple said;
but the Sub hadn't any more time to talk to him.
The sea-gull incident was rather a sore point with the _Bacchante_
gun-room.
That ship had not yet fired a gun; the _Achates_ had, and the
_Bacchante_ snotties were jealous and didn't believe it. All they could
find out was that their rival's after 9.2-inch gun had fired at a
submarine early one morning.
"What happened?" they would ask. "Did you hit it?"
"Well, we didn't see it again," the _Achates_ gun-room would answer.
"We must have hit it."
They always forgot to mention that this submarine had turned out to be a
dozen or more sea-gulls sitting close together; and they had told the
story so often--of course leaving out the sea-gull part--that they very
much hoped that their chummy ship would never get hold of the proper
yarn. If once they knew, their legs would be pulled unmercifully.
It would not have mattered so much if one of the Lieutenants or the
Commander had made the mistake; but the worst of it was that the Sub had
been on watch at the time, so the snotties, the China Doll, and Uncle
Podger would have perjured themselves for ever, rather than give away
the secret.
At Malta a passenger came on board, a tortoise about eight inches long.
Who brought him no one knew, but in a day or two old Fletcher the stoker
had adopted him as his own. The old man loved to sit on the boat deck
by the hour in the sun, with "Kaiser Bill"--as the men called the
tortoise--and feed the ungainly wrinkled brute with bits of cabbage.
Malta was left behind; the weather grew hot; white trousers were ordered
to be worn, and were scarce--no one had expected to be sent to a warm
climate--but those who had them shared with those who hadn't; the China
Doll borrowed a pair, much too big for him, from Uncle Podger; those who
had none, and would not borrow, wore their flannel trousers. Of course
the Pink Rat turned out in beautifully creased white ducks and spotless
shoes; the Pink Rat always carried about with him a very extensive
wardrobe, though where he stowed it all, no one could imagine.
But no one bothered about clothes. It was so glorious to be warm again,
and to be on their way to "do" something and fire their guns.
"At something better than sea-gulls!" said the Orphan, grinning with
delight. "We'll have shells coming all round us; you'll get plenty of
them, up in your old foretop, China Doll; you and your range-finder will
be blown sky-high in no time. Won't that be fun?"
The China Doll opened and shut his eyes, and simply trembled with
excitement.
"The China Doll has his legs blown off!" shouted the Pink Rat--the
senior snotty. "First aid on the China Doll!"
With a rush the snotties tumbled him on his back. "Lie still!" they
yelled. "Stop kicking--your legs are blown off--you haven't got any!"
"If I haven't got any, you won't feel me kicking!" the China Doll
squeaked, lashing out with his feet.
Whilst two ran for a bamboo stretcher, the others captured his legs and
tied them together with handkerchiefs and table napkins, so tightly that
the victim cried for mercy. The stretcher was brought; they lashed him
in it; lashed his arms in, to prevent him grabbing at the furniture and
shouting and yelling, ran him aft along the deck to lower him down into
the Gunner's store-room, below the armoured deck, where the doctors set
up their operating table at "Action" station.
Fortunately for the China Doll the armoured hatch leading down to it was
shut down and must not be opened.
On the way back to the gun-room with him, they had to pass the Surgeon's
cabin, where Doctor Crayshaw Gordon was sitting, busy censoring letters.
Dr. Crayshaw Gordon, R.N.V.R.--in private life he had a big consulting
practice in London--hearing the noise and seeing the stretcher, thought
there had been an accident, so jumped out of his cabin. "Hello!" he
sung out, in his funny chuckling way of talking--fixing his gold
eyeglasses on his nose, opening his mouth wide, and pulling nervously at
his little pointed tawny beard. "Hello! what's the matter?"
"The China Doll, sir!" they shouted, dropping him on the deck. "Both
legs blown off!--he can't kick you, sir, we've lashed him up too
tightly."
"It's very painful," the China Doll bleated, all the pink gone out of
his face.
Dr. Gordon went down on his knees and began to unlash him.
"Rather too much--too much," he said in his agitated manner, when he
found how tightly the handkerchiefs had been fastened, and cried out
with alarm when the China Doll's head suddenly dropped back.
"He's fainted, you silly fellows!"
They unbuckled the straps and untied the handkerchiefs in double-quick
time.
"Put him on my bunk," Dr. Gordon told them; and, very frightened, they
laid him there.
The China Doll's eyes opened, and he looked round not knowing what had
happened. "Don't play ass tricks; get out of it; leave him here!" Dr.
Gordon ordered gently; and they trooped away, dragging the stretcher
along after them--rather sobered for the moment--to get a lecture from
the Sub and Uncle Podger when they crowded into the gun-room and told
what had happened.
In half an hour the China Doll was back again--none the worse, except
that the pink had not all come back in his doll's face--rather pleased
with himself than otherwise.
That happened on a Wednesday afternoon. On the Thursday, orders came by
wireless for the _Achates_ to rendezvous off the Gulf of Smyrna; and as
dawn broke on Friday, the 5th March, she found herself half-way between
the islands of Mytilene and Chios.
No one knew what was going to happen except, perhaps, Captain
Macfarlane. "And he's probably forgotten," the irrepressible Orphan
said.
This young gentleman was on watch with his guns, under the fore bridge,
when the rendezvous was reached, and spotted some puffs of smoke rising
above the horizon to the north'ard. Presently he saw through his
glasses the masts of two battleships.
"What are they?" he asked excitedly of one of his petty officers, who
was training a gun in their direction and looking through the telescopic
sight.
"I know them, sir!" he cried. "The _Swiftsure_ and _Triumph_. Look at
their cranes--boat cranes--amidships, sir; there can't be any mistaking
them, sir."
As the Orphan had never seen them before, he had to take his word for
it.
"Trawlers behind 'em, sir--half a dozen or more," the petty officer
called out.
In half an hour the very graceful outlines of these two battleships
could be seen without glasses--easily distinguished from any other ship
in the Navy by their hydraulic cranes for hoisting boats in and out.
The Orphan looked at them with all the more interest, because he knew
that they had just come from the Dardanelles, and he peered at them
through his glasses to try and discover any shell-marks. They looked as
if they had just come out of dockyard hands, and he felt disappointed.
The trawlers followed, like ducklings out for a morning paddle with
their father and mother. Very homely they looked.
Signal hoists fluttered and were hauled down, and soon the three big
ships, with the little trawlers clustered at a respectful distance, lay
with engines stopped.
The Captains of the battleships came across to the _Achates_, and an
R.N.R. Lieutenant--in charge of the trawlers--bobbed alongside in a
trawler's dinghy and scrambled on board. All three went below to the
Captain's cabin.
It was a perfect morning, the breeze a little chilly, the sea calm, and
just beginning to catch the light of the sun as it rose behind the
misty, grey mountains of Asia Minor.
The two spotless gigs and the disreputable dinghy lay alongside, and
their crews were soon busy answering questions, as the quarter-deck men
left off their scrubbing decks and bawled down to know the news, and how
things were going, and what was to be done here. "Have you been hit?"
was the chief question.
"We got an 8-inch in the quarter-deck," the _Swiftsure's_ boat's crew
called up. "Knocked the ward-room about cruel;" and the _Triumphs_,
jealous, told them: "It ain't nothin' compared to Kiao Chau--we got our
foretop knocked out bombarding the forts there; a 12-inch shell what did
that. It's not near so bad here as what it was out there."
In the hubbub of voices the Commander, splashing out of the battery in
his sea-boots, sent the men back to their holystones and squeegees.
The Captains and the R.N.R. Lieutenant went back to their ships and
trawlers, and then the three big ships commenced steaming in line ahead
up the Gulf of Smyrna, the _Achates_ leading, the _Swiftsure_ astern of
her, and the _Triumph_ astern of the _Swiftsure_. The little trawlers
were left behind.
By breakfast-time everyone in the gun-room knew that the forts of Smyrna
were to be bombarded. The Navigator's "doggy"--the Pimple--came down
bursting with this information. "The Navigator says we shall be in
range just after dinner. I heard the Captain tell him they had a big
fort there with 9- or 10-inch guns, and a mine-field in front of it--any
amount of mines."
"We shall get first smack at them, shan't we?" the others said, beaming.
"Our Captain is the senior one, isn't he?" and they hurried through
breakfast and clattered up on the quarter-deck to have a look at the
land.
By this time the ships were well inside the Gulf of Smyrna, steaming
along its southern shore. Green olive-clad hills, rising from the
sparkling, sunlit sea, sloped upwards until their sides, becoming
barren, towered ragged into the cloudless sky. For two hours they
steamed along, until, in front of them, the mountain barrier which
circled the head of the Gulf, and sheltered the town of Smyrna itself,
loomed ahead fourteen miles away.
The three ships were quite close inshore now, and every officer and man
who had no special duties was on deck looking ashore, yarning in the
glorious warm sunshine, pointing out villages, eagerly scanning every
projecting point of land, and wondering whether the Vali of Smyrna knew
they were coming and was prepared.
They were not long in doubt. The tall, aristocratic Major of Marines,
soaked in Eastern lore by many years spent among Arabs and Sudanese,
suddenly spotted a little pillar of grey smoke rising from the shore.
He pointed it out, saying it was a signal, and was much chaffed by the
other ward-room officers, until even they realized that he was right,
when more curled up from projecting points of land as they steamed past.
The news of their approach was being passed along to Smyrna.
"Isn't it exciting? I do feel ripping, inside," the Orphan told the
Lamp-post as they both watched the shore and the signals. "Isn't it an
adventure? my hat!"
"The Greek galleys and the Roman galleys came along just as we are
coming," the learned Lamp-post said excitedly. "I bet the poor
galley-slaves' backs were tired before they fetched up!"
"It must have been beastly for them not to be able to see where they
were going and not to take part in the fighting."
"They didn't want to," the Lamp-post told him. "Let's come for'ard."
So they went along the boat deck, and from there they soon were able to
see a little square shape rising out of the water. It was the fort of
Yeni Kali, which commanded the approach to the Bay of Smyrna and the
town. It was jutting out on low-lying land from the southern shore of
the bay, which here made a broad sweep along the foot of some very high
hills.
Up above, on the bridge, the Navigator was pointing out to the Pimple a
buoy with a flag on it. "That marks the end of the mine-field. I'll
bet anything they've forgotten to remove it, or haven't had time. You
see that low ground to the right of it--all covered with bushes and
things--they've got batteries somewhere there, and there are more of
them half-way up the hills."
The Pimple nervously followed the Navigator's finger as he pointed out
the places, and expected every moment that a gun would open fire. He
had felt very brave at breakfast when he talked about them, but he was
not quite sure whether he was enjoying himself so much as he expected.
The ships stopped engines whilst still out of range, and went to dinner
at seven bells. An excited cheery dinner it was, and the mess deck
hummed like a wasps' nest, the hoary old grandfathers among the men--and
there were many of them--in as high spirits as anybody.
Punctually at half-past twelve Captain Macfarlane went for'ard to the
bridge, the ships commenced to go ahead, and the bugles blared out
"Action stations"--the ordinary General Quarters bugle without the
preliminary two "G" blasts, but what a difference when heard for the
first time!
The China Doll, clambering up the fore shrouds to his dizzy perch in the
for'ard fire-control top, found his little heart thumping so much that
he had to have a "stand easy" half-way up, gripping the ratlines and
getting his breath.
Captain Macfarlane--on the bridge--saw him stop, and guessed the reason.
He had had much experience of shells coming his way--during the Boer
War--and knew how he had hated them, so felt sorry for the youngster.
"A lot depends on you, Mr. Stokes" (that was the China Doll's name), he
called up to him encouragingly; and the China Doll was up the rigging
like a redshank, tremendously proud and happy, clambered into the top,
and began helping the seamen, already there, take the canvas cover off
the range-finder and unlash the canvas screens.
The Gunnery-Lieutenant climbed up after him, and snubbed him for asking
foolish questions. "Were they going to fire? Who was going to fire?
How do I know? You'll know soon enough. Just hang on to those
voice-pipes and don't talk."
So for some time the China Doll, humbled again, had nothing to do but
look round him. Right ahead was the fort, standing square and bold at
the end of the low-lying land. Three miles or so behind it, sloping up
the mountains, were the white houses of Smyrna; over to the northern
shore, to his left, long heaps lay dazzling in the sun--salt heaps these
were; and on the right, the high hills with their concealed batteries.
He looked behind at the two ships following astern, and down below at
the _Achates_ beneath him, and wondered, if the mast were shot away,
whether he would fall clear of her in the water or on top of the boats.
The "top" where he was, looked so small from down below, but when he was
actually in it, it seemed so big that he thought shells couldn't
possibly miss it.
He looked down at the bridge, and saw the Pimple shadowing the tall
Navigator as he dodged from side to side of the bridge--they would both
go into the conning-tower presently; he saw Mr. Meredith's bald head
showing out of the turret on the fo'c'sle, and Rawlinson squeezed his
head out too. For a moment he rather wished he could change places with
them.
But then the orders came up through the voice-pipes. The Captain wanted
the range of the fort. The seaman at the range-finder fumbled about with
the thumb-screws and sang out: "One--six--nine--five--o" (the o is
sounded as a letter, not as a figure). These were yards. The China Doll
shouted down his voice-pipe: "One--six--nine--five--o". Nothing more
came up for a quarter of an hour; he noticed how the "top" shook with
the vibration of the engines. Then he had to sing down his voice-pipe:
"One--five--five--o--o"; another interval; the range came down:
"One--four--one--o--o", and the Gunnery-Lieutenant began shouting orders
through his voice-pipes about degrees of elevation and the kind of shell
to be used.
A bell tinkled close to him, and the red disk showed that the
transmitting-room was calling him. Uncle Podger was there, he knew,
sitting in the little padded room below the armoured deck and the
water-line, with his head almost inside a huge voice-pipe shaped like
the end of a gramophone, listening for orders, and waiting to pass them
on to the various guns. And it was Uncle Podger's voice which came to
him: "What's happening? Are we getting close in? It's beastly hot down
here; aren't we going to fire soon?"
Before he could answer, a long signal hoist nearly knocked off his cap,
flicking against the side of the "top" as it went up to the mast-head.
Down it came again; a corner of a yellow-and-red pendant caught in a
voice-pipe; he released it, and saw the signalman haul the flags down,
in a gaily coloured heap, on the bridge below him. When he looked
astern again, the two ships were spreading out; the vibration of the
"top" ceased. He knew that the engines had stopped, and presently all
three ships lay in line, with their starboard broadsides turned towards
the old fort.
The Gunnery-Lieutenant now flew about, jumping from voice-pipes to
range-finder and back again, reporting to the Captain. "Aye, aye, sir!"
he shouted, and then called down, "Fore turret!--fore turret! try a
ranging shot--common shell--one--four--o--five--o, at the left edge of
the fort. Fire when you are ready!"
[Illustration: "THE GUNNERY LIEUTENANT NOW FLEW ABOUT, JUMPING FROM
VOICE PIPES TO RANGE-FINDER AND BACK AGAIN"]
The China Doll felt funny thrills running up and down his backbone as he
watched the fore turret move round, and the long chase of the 9.2-inch
gun cock itself in the air. Mr. Meredith's bald head disappeared
through the sighting hood. He heard the snap of the breech-block and
the cheery sound of "Ready!" Mr. Meredith's head came out of his hood
as he gazed at the distant fort through his glasses. He heard the word
"Fire!" and at the same moment the fighting-top swayed as if a squall
had struck the mast, a great cloud of yellowish smoke blotted out the
foc's'le, and the _Achates_ had fired a gun for the second time in the
war--on this occasion not at sea-gulls!
In a few seconds a column of water leapt into the air behind the
fort--the shell had fallen in the bay beyond. The Gunnery-Lieutenant
roared down: "One--three--eight--five--o; fire as soon as you are
ready!"
Off went the gun again; another wait, and a black-reddish splash
appeared on the face of the fort, and up shot a cloud of dirty smoke.
"Hit, sir!"
After that he was too busy to notice anything; he only remembered, later
on, that the Turks had not fired back. More signals were hoisted; the
_Swiftsure_ and _Triumph_ commenced firing, and in a very short space of
time hits were being rapidly made on Yeni Kali fort.
Then the after turret of the _Achates_ opened fire, and with her second
round landed a lyddite shell square on one corner of the fort--brick
dust and masonry going sky-high.
The Turks did not return the fire.
When, eventually, the bugle sounded the "secure", the China Doll could
hardly believe that he had been there for two and a half hours, and at
the order to "pack up" he climbed down below, and ran to the gun-room,
where Barnes, the big marine, in his shirt-sleeves, was already laying
the table for afternoon tea.
The snotties and Uncle Podger came trooping in, jabbering like magpies;
the Pink Rat, who was in the after turret, and Rawlinson, who had the
foremost one, each claiming that his own gun had made most hits. They
both were getting angry--the Pink Rat cool and cynical, Rawlinson's
temper getting the better of him.
They seized the China Doll. "You saw; which gun did best?" but the
Assistant Clerk was much too wily to take sides, and wriggled away.
They pounced on the Pimple, who had been on the bridge all the time.
He, flattered to have his opinion asked, thought that Rawlinson's gun
had made more hits.
"That rotten, worn-out pipe of a gun of yours," the Pink Rat sneered,
"couldn't hit a haystack at a mile; yours were dropping short all the
time!"
"Yours may be the slightly better gun" (it was more modern), "but if you
had anything to do with it, it wouldn't hit the Crystal Palace, a
hundred yards away," Rawlinson snorted, getting red in the face. "Ours
_didn't_ go short."
"Contradiction is no argument," the Pink Rat said loftily; and
Rawlinson, who was half as big again as the senior snotty (that was why
the Pimple had backed him), would have given him a hiding, had not the
Sub come in and stopped them.
"What the dickens does it matter? We've given old Yeni Kali a fair
'beano'; its own mother wouldn't know it. Hurry up with the tea booze;
I've to go on watch; out, both of you, if you can't keep quiet!"
Barnes brought in the big teapot, slices of bread and jam and butter
disappeared marvellously as they all ate and gabbled. "Why didn't they
shoot back?--the mean beggars--I expect we've knocked out all their
guns," Rawlinson gurgled with his mouth full. "You didn't, anyway,"
sneered the Pink Rat.
"I wish we'd gone straight in--don't put your sleeve in my butter--I
don't believe those mines would have gone off--wouldn't they?--a bally
lot you know about mines--you pig, Pimple, you've taken half that tin of
jam--the Captain knows all about them--that's what those trawlers are
for--shove across the bread--they'll sweep a passage through them--why
didn't they let us fire more of our 6-inch--your old guns, Orphan--they
ain't as much good as a sick headache--look at that slice of cake the
Pink Rat's cut--put the Pink Rat down for two slices, Barnes, and bring
along the teapot."
The Hun put his head in at the door. "Twenty-five minutes past four,
sir."
"All right! Curse it! I'm coming," and gulping down what was left of
his tea, and grabbing his telescope and cap, the Sub went up to relieve
the watch amidst a babel of "Hun! Hun! hold on a jiffy! You were on
the bridge all the time; which 9.2 made the most hits? What did the
Captain say?"
"The after gun; that's what the Captain said," he told them, and went
out again.
"I told you so!" laughed the Pink Rat; and Rawlinson, crestfallen and
angry, shouted "that he didn't believe it, and if it was true, that it
was all due to the China Doll passing down the wrong ranges".
The poor Assistant Clerk flushed with mortification, and squeaked out:
"I know I didn't make any mistake--I just repeated the figures after the
Gunnery-Lieutenant--they were right at my end of the voice-pipe."
"Well, don't cry!" Rawlinson growled. "You've got such a silly
voice--you can't help it--the figures must have come wrong at our end."
They seized the luckless China Doll, stuck him on a bench at one end of
the mess, twisted one of the long white table-cloths into a rope, and
made him hold one end, whilst the Orphan held the other to his ear and
pretended to listen.
"Now pass the range," they laughed; "try one--five--nine--o--o."
"One--five--nine--o--o," the China Doll called into the end of the
table-cloth, not quite certain that he was enjoying himself.
"One--four--seven--six--and a half," repeated the Orphan very solemnly.
"There you are! China! try again!" and they made him give the order.
"Train seventeen degrees on the port beam."