E14 kept to her job, on the edge of the procession of traffic. Patrol
vessels annoyed her to such an extent that "as I had not seen any
transports lately I decided to sink a patrol-ship as they were always
firing on me." So she torpedoed a thing that looked like a mine-layer,
and must have been something of that kidney, for it sank in less than
a minute. A tramp-steamer lumbering across the dead flat sea was
thoughtfully headed back to Constantinople by firing rifles ahead of
her. "Under fire the whole day," E14 observes philosophically. The
nature of her work made this inevitable. She was all among the
patrols, which kept her down a good deal and made her draw on her
batteries, and when she rose to charge, watchers ashore burned
oil-flares on the beach or made smokes among the hills according to
the light. In either case there would be a general rush of patrolling
craft of all kinds, from steam launches to gunboats. Nobody loves the
Trade, though E14 did several things which made her popular. She let
off a string of very surprised dhows (they were empty) in charge of a
tug which promptly fled back to Constantinople; stopped a couple of
steamers full of refugees, also bound for Constantinople, who were
"very pleased at being allowed to proceed" instead of being
lusitaniaed as they had expected. Another refugee-boat, fleeing from
goodness knows what horror, she chased into Rodosto Harbour, where,
though she could not see any troops, "they opened a heavy rifle fire
on us, hitting the boat several times. So I went away and chased two
more small tramps who returned towards Constantinople."
Transports, of course, were fair game, and in spite of the necessity
she was under of not risking her remaining eye, E14 got a big one in
a night of wind and made another hurriedly beach itself, which then
opened fire on her, assisted by the local population. "Returned fire
and proceeded," says E14. The diversion of returning fire is one much
appreciated by the lower-deck as furnishing a pleasant break in what
otherwise might be a monotonous and odoriferous task. There is no
drill laid down for this evolution, but etiquette and custom prescribe
that on going up the hatch you shall not too energetically prod the
next man ahead with the muzzle of your rifle. Likewise, when
descending in quick time before the hatch closes, you are requested
not to jump directly on the head of the next below. Otherwise you act
"as requisite" on your own initiative.
When she had used up all her torpedoes E14 prepared to go home by the
way she had come--there was no other--and was chased towards Gallipoli
by a mixed pack composed of a gunboat, a torpedo-boat, and a tug.
"They shepherded me to Gallipoli, one each side of me and one astern,
evidently expecting me to be caught by the nets there." She walked
very delicately for the next eight hours or so, all down the Straits,
underrunning the strong tides, ducking down when the fire from the
forts got too hot, verifying her position and the position of the
minefield, but always taking notes of every ship in sight, till
towards teatime she saw our Navy off the entrance and "rose to the
surface abeam of a French battleship who gave us a rousing cheer." She
had been away, as nearly as possible, three weeks, and a kind
destroyer escorted her to the base, where we will leave her for the
moment while we consider the performance of E11 (Lieutenant-Commander
M.E. Nasmith) in the same waters at about the same season.
E11 "proceeded" in the usual way, to the usual accompaniments of
hostile destroyers, up the Straits, and meets the usual difficulties
about charging-up when she gets through. Her wireless naturally takes
this opportunity to give trouble, and E11 is left, deaf and dumb,
somewhere in the middle of the Sea of Marmara, diving to avoid hostile
destroyers in the intervals of trying to come at the fault in her
aerial. (Yet it is noteworthy that the language of the Trade, though
technical, is no more emphatic or incandescent than that of top-side
ships.)
Then she goes towards Constantinople, finds a Turkish torpedo-gunboat
off the port, sinks her, has her periscope smashed by a six-pounder,
retires, fits a new top on the periscope, and at 10.30 A.M.--they must
have needed it--pipes "All hands to bathe." Much refreshed, she gets
her wireless linked up at last, and is able to tell the authorities
where she is and what she is after.