THE NORTH SEA.
I.
There were many different topics of conversation in the wardroom of the
_Mariner_. The seven members of the mess talked learnedly upon dozens
of subjects, no matter whether they knew much about them or not.
Nothing was too abstruse. They discussed the Mendel theory, atavism,
and how onions acquired their flavour and violets their scent with as
much zest and freedom as they argued about the possibilities of a
German invasion of Britain, and the rights and wrongs of universal
service. Conversation frequently became strident, and heated argument
occasionally gave way to flat contradiction; while contradiction
sometimes terminated in a babel in which every one aired opinions to
which nobody listened. One can hardly expect anything else when seven
men of widely divergent views and ideals, and with different characters
and temperaments, live cheek by jowl in the same small ship. The
subjects most often brought under discussion, however--the hardy
perennials, so to speak--were:
(1) Whether or not the High Sea Fleet of his Imperial Majesty the
Emperor of all the Germans was likely to emerge into the North Sea.
(2) Former ships.
(3) The iniquities of one Harry Smith, officers' steward of the second
class.
Opinions on No. 1 varied, and need not be entered into here; but No. 2
provided them with many hours' conversation.
'When I was in the old _Somerset_, in nineteen-nine,' somebody would
start the ball rolling, 'we had a fellow who'----
'By George, yes!' continued some one else; 'that reminds me of the
_Saturn_ in China in nought-five. Did you ever hear the yarn about
the watch-keeper who'---- And straightway the floodgates of
reminiscence were opened.
It was perfectly natural, for there were seven of them, and among them
they had served his Majesty or his predecessors for nearly eighty
years. Moreover, they had been in every imaginable type of ship, in
many different parts of the world, and had never been shipmates before.
Five of the seven we have already met. The other two were Augustus
Black, the surgeon-probationer of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve,
and George Bonar, the midshipman of the Royal Naval Reserve. Of them,
more anon.
Topic No. 3, the sins and omissions of Harry Smith, came up for
consideration at least twice daily. He was an unkempt individual, with
long black hair and sallow complexion, who had just entered the
service. Before deciding to serve the King he had, or had not, been a
shining light in a livery and bait stable. He may have been an
excellent ostler, but did not scintillate as an officers' steward.
Nominally he was supposed to assist Watkins, the senior steward, who,
under the supervision of Mr Menotti, did for the officers as regards
their messing. Watkins himself was all that could be desired, but the
redoubtable Harry frequently 'did for' the members of the mess in more
senses than one.
The galley, where all the cooking was done, lived forward, and though
it must have been painful for Smith to fall on the slippery steel deck
on the way aft with the joint for the evening meal, it was still more
annoying for seven officers with healthy appetites to discover that
their leg of mutton, together with its dish, had flopped gracefully
overboard and had sunk to the bottom of the harbour. On one occasion
the dish of bacon for breakfast came to grief; whereupon Smith,
trusting that nobody was looking, gathered up what remained on the
deck, and replaced it in the dish with his fingers. But the eagle eye
of the first lieutenant was upon him, and there was trouble.
Besides being the food-carrier to and from the galley, Smith acted as
the wine steward in Watkins's absence, was supposed to clean and wash
up the table silver and crockery, and to keep a watchful eye upon the
table-napkins and tablecloths. It was unfortunate that he poured the
sherry into a decanter half-full of port; but he was forgiven, for the
mixture, under the guise of 'madeira,' was offered to, and accepted as
a _quid pro quo_ by, unsuspecting dockyard employees who had provided
the first lieutenant with--well, certain things which he required for
the ship. Smith was not pardoned for losing the upper half of an
expensive silver-plated entrée-dish, for breaking or losing in ten days
no fewer than seventeen tumblers, four plates, two cups, and a
butter-dish, or for using the best damask table-napkins as dishcloths
or for boot-polishing, for all those articles had to be accounted for.
Wooten was also extremely annoyed one Sunday morning when, on going the
rounds, he discovered the hairbrushes and celluloid dickey of the
culprit, together with one toothbrush, a shirt, six raw and juicy chops
done up in newspaper, some emery-paper, knife-powder, and three loaves
of wardroom bread, nestling side by side in the same cupboard. No!
Harry Smith, though undoubtedly a feature of the ship, and a source of
abundant and animated conversation, was not an acquisition.
'Let's get rid of the blighter!' some one suggested.
They tried to, but the only substitute available was a callow, pimply
faced youth who, before the war, had been a railway porter.
'Lord!' laughed the skipper, 'if he comes we sha'n't have any crockery
at all at the end of a fortnight.'
And so Smith remained.
Augustus Black was a medical student at one of the London hospitals who
had volunteered his services on the outbreak of war. The powers that be
had accepted his offer, enrolled him in the Royal Naval Volunteer
Reserve as a surgeon-probationer, provided him with the sum of twenty
pounds wherewith to purchase the necessary uniform, and presently
desired him to repair forthwith to his duties on board H.M.S.
_Mariner_.
The ship's company as a whole were disgustingly healthy; but Black
attended to their minor ailments, cuts, and contusions, packed them off
to the depot ship or hospital if they became really ill, held what he
vulgarly called 'belly musters' once a month or oftener, and gave them
lectures on first-aid and personal hygiene. In the ordinary piping
times of peace a destroyer carries nothing but a medical chest
containing the simpler remedies, together with bandages, splints,
tourniquets, and dressings. She has no doctor, and if a man is hurt or
becomes ill he is given first-aid or relief by one of his shipmates,
and is sent to the depot ship or hospital for treatment as soon as
possible. In war, however, when any ship may conceivably be in action
at any moment, and when twenty-four hours or more may elapse before
wounded men can see a medical officer, valuable lives may be saved if
injuries are properly attended to and dressed on the spot. That was why
Black and many others like him had been sent to destroyers.
In addition to his other duties, he acted as wine-caterer for the mess,
and, since there was no cabin available, slept on a settee in the
wardroom, and shaved, bathed, dressed, and kept his clothes and other
belongings in the sub-lieutenant's cabin, or wherever else he could
find room. His existence must have had its drawbacks and
inconveniences; but, being adaptable, he did not seem to mind them, for
he was an excellent messmate, always cheerful, and was not in the least
addicted to sea-sickness.
Bonar, the R.N.R. 'snotty,' slept in a hammock in the tiny flat outside
the officers' cabins, and where he kept his possessions was always
something of a mystery. He had been at sea in the mercantile marine
before the war, and, in spite of his youth, was a most useful member of
society. He helped the sub with his charts, assisted Wooten with his
official correspondence, wrote up the fair log, and justified his
existence in many other ways.
The authorities realised that life in small ships was sometimes apt to
breed staleness; so, though the _Mariner_ and her flotilla were
often at sea, and while in harbour were always ready to sail at short
notice, officers and men were allowed ashore in the afternoons whenever
they could be spared. They were always liable to instant recall, of
course, and never got very far from their ships; but this did not
prevent them from playing games or otherwise amusing themselves. It did
them all the good in the world, and kept them fit and contented.
On board, their amusements were simple. They all read a great deal, and
their expenditure on 'sevenpennies,' cheap books at one shilling, and
magazines must have put considerable profit into the pockets of the
publishers who catered for their needs, notwithstanding the enhanced
price of paper and the shortage of labour. One thing all agreed upon
was their debt of gratitude to Jack London. They read his books not
once, but a dozen times; and, prolific writer though he is, they wished
he were more prolific, for there was a snap and a liveliness about his
work which appealed to them. In the evenings in harbour the officers
either read, argued, listened to the gramophone, played with the
doctor's Meccano set, or indulged in ping-pong. It is true that the
wardroom of a destroyer is not an ideal place for this game. The table
was small; collisions with hanging lamps, furniture, and Harry Smith
with his arms full of newly cleaned glasses and cutlery were frequent
and sometimes painful; while the balls had an unhappy knack of losing
themselves under settees and cupboards. But in spite of these
disadvantages the players became expert.
Farther forward the men also contrived to keep themselves happy. They
had their band--consisting of a drum, a couple of concertinas, many
mouth-organs, and a flute--which disported itself on deck on fine
evenings. They also sang loudly and sentimentally; while one versatile
person imitated Mr Charles Chaplin, bowler hat, moustache, baggy
trousers, and all. They had their racing crews for the whaler and the
dinghy, and in the dog-watches were not slow in challenging other
destroyers to races. Sometimes they won and sometimes they did not; but
the contests always gave the onlookers the opportunity of indulging in
ribald and strident remarks at other people's expense.
Amongst the ship's company were a certain number of men who had done
their time in the navy, had retired into civil life after their various
periods of service, and had either volunteered or been recalled on the
outbreak of war. They were all excellent men, just as good as any of
their shipmates, while what little rustiness there was about them wore
off within a month of their joining the ship. Their experiences and
occupations ashore had been varied, to say the least of it.
'Dogo' Pearson, the milkman, has appeared before; but besides him there
was an ex-member of the Liverpool police, an Edinburgh fireman, a
cattle-puncher from Arizona, and a man who had served as a
steward-valet on board a yacht belonging to some rich potentate in the
Argentine. Then there was David MacLeod, who hailed from Stornoway;
Donald MacIver, from the Orkneys; and Roderick Mackay, from Lerwick.
They were all fishermen and members of the Royal Naval Reserve, and
naturally were good seamen. Moreover, Wooten found them most useful as
reliable weather prophets.
'Well,' he would say to MacLeod on the bridge at sea, 'what d'you make
of the weather?'
The Scotsman would look up at the sky and note the direction and force
of the wind. 'Sur,' he would answer slowly, 'we'll ha'e a wee bit blaw
afore the mornin'.'
'Blow!' Wooten would echo, rather surprised. 'Why d'you say that? The
glass is high, and there's a fine enough sky; isn't there?'
MacLeod would wag his head wisely. 'I dinna ken why,' he would say.
'The wund'll ha'e gone roond tae the north-east, an'll start blawin'
fresh afore the mornin'.'
And blow it invariably did, precisely from the quarter MacLeod had
mentioned.
The torpedo coxswain of a destroyer is a very important person indeed.
He is always a chief petty officer or petty officer who acts as _ex
officio_ master-at-arms of the ship, and as such supervises the
discipline, is the mouthpiece between the men and the officers, brings
men up for punishment when they have misconducted themselves, and makes
out and forwards the punishment returns to the depot ship. This, since
serious offences are infrequent in torpedo-craft, is perhaps the least
of all his duties. He also performs the work carried out by the ship's
steward in a big ship, being responsible, under the supervision of the
C.O., for the drawing and issue of all clothing, victuals, and rum,
besides keeping the store-books for the same. As these have to be
forwarded to the victualling paymaster of the depot ship at certain
intervals, this, since it involves no small amount of paper work and
much calculation, may be called the most onerous of his tasks.
But the coxswain's chief function, his _raison d'être_, is to act
as a skilled helmsman. He is generally a man of long service and tried
experience, who has done all his time in torpedo-craft. He knows, or
should know, the individual idiosyncrasies of practically every type of
destroyer in the navy; and, this being the case, he is the commanding
officer's right-hand man if he is good--and he usually is--and his
_bête noir_ if he is bad. He steers the ship going in or out of
harbour, when she is moving away from or going alongside a jetty or
another ship, during steam tactics and manoeuvres, or in action. In
short, he is the qualified helmsman whose presence is required at the
wheel in any circumstances calling for special skill and knowledge. He
draws extra pay for his attainments, and has been through special
courses to fit him for his rating; but his value lies in the fact that
he has learnt his trade through long experience at sea.
William Willis, the coxswain of the _Mariner_, was a short,
well-covered little man, with a laughing red face and a pair of
twinkling blue eyes. He was always laughing, no matter how bad the
weather, no matter what happened; while he had the peculiar knack of
always appearing on the bridge at the very instant he was wanted, and
without having to be sent for. How, when, and where he slept or ate at
sea Wooten never discovered; for no sooner had the next destroyer ahead
hauled out of the line to avoid a floating mine, or an important signal
been made, than Willis, breathing like a grampus, clambered ponderously
up on to the bridge and relieved the helmsman. It seemed second nature
to him to arrive at the moment he was most needed. One peculiar trait
of his was that he never would admit that the weather was really bad.
'Bit rotten, cox'n, eh?' Wooten would remark, shaking the drops of
water out of his eyes after a green sea had lolloped over the
forecastle and deluged every one on the bridge with spray.
'Not near so bad as I 'ave 'ad, sir,' Willis always answered stolidly.
'When I was in the _Boxer_ we was once 'ove-to for three days in
weather like this 'ere.' He occasionally varied the formula by
mentioning the _Zephyr_, the _Angler_, the _Kangaroo_, the _Albatross_,
the _Garry_, the _Mohawk_, or various others of the destroyers in which
he had served; but no matter if the barometer had dropped half-an-inch
in an hour, or the wind was blowing with almost hurricane force, or the
ship was rolling and pitching to an extent that nobody would have
believed possible if he had not seen and felt it, her weather, in the
coxswain's opinion, was never so bad as that experienced by the other
craft he had been in.
Sometimes, in the days when Wooten was still new to the ship, and
before he had come to understand the ways and tricks of handling
her--and a destroyer does occasionally take a deal of handling--they
got into difficulties. Perhaps they would be going alongside an
oiler[34] at dead of night to replenish their fuel, and the wind would
get on the wrong bow, and a strong tide sweep the ship the wrong way.
Willis rarely talked on the bridge, but then it was that he considered
himself entitled to speak.
[34] Oil-fuel supply ship.
'Why not try 'er with a touch astern starboard, sir?' would come a
hoarse remark. 'Slew 'er stern round--see?' He never spoke as if he
were offering advice; he merely made a suggestion, as it were, and
oftener than not Wooten acted upon it, and found it good.
Daniel Bulpit, the chief engine-room artificer, Thompson's trusted
assistant and second in command, had few peculiarities. He was a
hard-working, conscientious, and thoroughly capable west-countryman,
who was always cheerful and always obliging. In appearance he was short
and thick-set, with a fresh complexion, hair slightly tinged with gray,
and blue eyes; and what he didn't know about the _Mariner_ and her
internal economy was not worth thinking about. Before joining the
destroyer he had been at the College at Dartmouth, teaching the naval
cadets their business in the pattern-shop. He had evidently been
popular there, for when he went ashore he was frequently recognised and
accosted by certain of his 'young gentlemen,' most of whom by this time
had attained the dignity and single gold stripes of sub-lieutenants.
Gartin, the chief stoker, was a character, and, among other duties, had
charge of the engineer's stores and tools. He was a tall man, with
shaggy eyebrows, black hair, and a black beard, and, judging from the
conversation occasionally heard issuing from the storeroom hatch, took
his job very seriously indeed, and regarded most people, certainly all
seamen, as disciples of Barabbas.
'Please, will yer let us 'ave the loan of a cold chisel an' a nammer?'
once asked Pincher Martin.
The chief stoker glared. He had a rooted antipathy to all men who came
to borrow tools, for as often as not they omitted to return them. This
necessitated a game of hide-and-seek throughout the ship on the part of
Gartin himself; while, when the implements were eventually retrieved,
the edges of the chisels were generally found to be jagged, the saws
blunt, and the punches broken. 'What d'you want 'em for?' he asked
suspiciously.
'Ter cut a length o' three an' a narf wire in 'alves.'
'Ain't got none!' snapped Gartin.
Pincher knew full well that he had. 'We carn't do th' job without 'em,'
he expostulated mildly.
'Can't 'elp that; you'll 'ave to do the best you can, or else borrow
'em off some one else. I ain't got no 'ammers nor chisels, I tells
you!'
'But I see'd'----
'Can't 'elp what you see'd. I ain't got none; that's flat, ain't it?'
'Well, if yer really 'aven't got 'em I s'pose I'll 'ave ter go an' tell
the bloke wot sent me ter borrow 'em,' said Martin with an air of
resignation.
Gartin pricked up his ears. ''Oo was it 'oo sent you?'
'Fu'st lootenant,' said Pincher, inventing a polite fiction on the spur
of the moment.
'Why didn't you say so afore?' Gartin demanded wrathfully, opening a
tool-box. 'Think I'm 'ere to 'ave my time wasted like this? You're
quite certain it was th' fu'st lootenant sent you?' He thought he had
seen a twinkle in Pincher's eye.
'Well, 'e said 'e wanted the job done this mornin', any'ow,' the
ordinary seaman prevaricated.
The chief stoker produced the hammer and the chisel, and handed them
across as if he were making a gift of the Crown Jewels. ''Ere you are.
Look out you returns 'em. If you don't'---- He glared fiercely and
shook his head.
'If I doesn't?'
'If you don't I'll take you afore the engineer horficer an' the captin,
an' 'ave the price of 'em stopped outa your pay. I'm fed up wi' chasin'
people round the ship. They comes to me borrowin' things right an'
left, never says so much as "Thank you," an' never troubles to return
the gear wot they borrowed. I ain't 'ere to get runnin' round arter
seamen wot isn't no better'n a pack o' thieves!'
'I'll look out I returns 'em orl right,' said Pincher, retreating up
the ladder with a broad grin all over his face.
'I'll look out you pays for 'em if you don't!' was the chief stoker's
final remark.
Pincher retired chuckling, with the tools in his possession. He did not
feel the least bit uneasy. Gartin's bark was always worse than his
bite, and nobody ever took him really seriously.
Hills, the petty officer telegraphist, was a burly, powerful-looking
man of average height. His eyebrows, like Gartin's, were long and
bushy, the hair on his head was thick and luxuriant, while his chin,
though he shaved every morning regularly, was always bristly and blue
by the evening. At sea he spent most of his time in the wireless office
abaft the charthouse. It was a tiny apartment, about eight feet by
five, and every conceivable nook and cranny, and almost every square
inch of the walls and ceiling, was occupied by instruments. Where there
was room on the walls Hills had decorated his little den with
photographs of his wife, children, relations, and friends, and sundry
flamboyant and highly coloured picture post-cards. There was just room
for a mahogany slab which served as a table, and a chair bolted to the
deck, in which, with a pair of telephone-receivers clipped over his
ears, Hills sat enthroned like some mysterious wizard in his cave. The
wireless office was soundproof and practically airtight. Its occupant
detested draughts, and at sea in winter, when the two small side
windows were kept tightly shut, the atmosphere could almost be cut with
a knife. In the early mornings, when Hills had had an all-night
sitting, and felt peevish and looked dishevelled, his shipmates always
said his hairy face assumed a simian aspect, and that he himself
reminded them of a gorilla in his cage. It was a libel, but this did
not prevent certain irreverent persons from forgathering outside his
den at cockcrow, opening the door gently, and then, scratching
themselves after the manner of apes, inquiring tenderly as to his
health.
''Ullo, "Birdie," 'ow goes the zoo? Wot time does th' hanimals feed
this mornin'?'
'Oh, go to 'ell!' 'Birdie' would exclaim irritably. Sometimes he
adopted stronger measures, emerged from his lair with a ferocious
expression, and, armed with a broom-handle, pursued his tormentors
round the forecastle to the accompaniment of yelps of pain and howls
for mercy as he belaboured them roundly.
But Hills was popular on board, and was thoroughly good at his work;
so, taking things all round, Wooten and the officers had reason to
congratulate themselves upon having a good ship's company.
II.
Who would not sell a farm and go to sea? Life in the navy, even in war,
has its compensations. At any rate, the sailor's commodious residence
conveys him, his belongings, his food, and his weapons to the scene of
his activities at a speed of anything between seven and a half and
thirty-six knots, according to circumstances. The soldier, on the other
hand, though he may sometimes ride upon a horse or travel in a train,
generally has to rely upon his own flat feet for locomotion. Moreover,
he carries on his person several days' provisions, spare clothing, a
rifle, a bayonet, ammunition, and equipment, together with an
assortment of bombs, gas-masks, and entrenching tools. Any spare space
or weight-carrying capacity which may remain to him is presumably at
his own disposal, and may be utilised for accommodating gifts of
tobacco, magazines, and socks from home. So the sailor is lucky in a
way; while he also escapes the mud of the trenches, the plagues of
flies, and other abominations--for which he is duly grateful. It is
true, though, that his floating home, particularly if it is a small one
like a destroyer, is very subject to the vicissitudes of the weather,
and has a knack of being abominably wet and very unstable in a seaway.
But life at sea in peace and life at sea in war are not so very
different. The ocean, with its gales, calms, and fogs, is always the
same, and hostilities only mean more time spent at sea, a few extra
dangers thrown in, in the shape of mines and submarines, and the chance
of a 'scrap' with the enemy.
Sometimes, during their expeditions to that region known as 'the other
side,' for the express purpose of discomforting the Hun, the
_Mariner_ and the light cruisers and other destroyers with her had
bad weather. Occasionally it was very bad indeed, and until they got
used to it some of the ship's company wished fervently that they had
never joined the navy at all. When their little ship was punching home
against a rapidly rising gale, the green seas had a playful habit of
breaking over the bows and of washing waist-deep over the upper deck;
while, even in the quiet intervals, sheets of spray came flying on
board until every one was soaked through and through, in spite of
oilskins.
The movement was dizzy and maddening. It was usually a combined pitch
and roll, a horrible corkscrew motion which left one wondering what
antics the ship was going to indulge in next. At one instant the bows
would be flung high into the air on the crest of a wave until the
forefoot and some length of the bottom were clean out of the water.
Then the sea would fall away from underneath, and, after hesitating a
little, the bows would fall into the next hollow with a sickening
downward plunge. Then a great gray wall of advancing water, topped with
a mass of yeasty foam, would rear itself up and obliterate the horizon
ahead. Sometimes the ship lifted in time to ride over it. Sometimes she
seemed to hang, and the liquid avalanche broke on board and surged over
the forecastle with a crashing and a thudding which made the whole ship
quiver and tremble. At such times the mess-decks, the wardroom, and the
cabins, however watertight they were supposed to be, were usually
inundated with several inches of water. Hot food was often out of the
question, for even if the cook were not seasick, or his fire were not
extinguished by the sea, he, not being blessed with the tentacles of an
octopus, could hardly prevent himself from being hurled violently forth
through his galley door, let alone retain an array of saucepans,
kettles, and frying-pans on the top of a nearly red-hot stove.
Something was bound to go, and 'cookie' took very good care it was not
he. Then it was that officers and men ate and drank what they could.
Wooten favoured Bovril from a vacuum flask, corned beef sandwiches, and
cheese; but some people, having no appetites, preferred to fast.
Destroyers cannot steam very fast against a heavy head-sea, and with
bad weather from the west there was always the possibility that the
enemy's battle-cruisers might emerge from their lair and chase and sink
the retiring British ships one by one as they punched slowly homewards.
Small craft are not suited for fighting in very bad weather, and such
an eventuality might have been disastrous; but nobody seemed to trouble
his head about it.
Life at sea in the summer, when there was hardly a ripple on the water,
with a brilliant sun and no fog, was enjoyable, though it is true that
they always ran a certain amount of risk from mines, floating or
otherwise. The dangerous red squares, oblongs, and circles on the chart
were abundant and well scattered. Ships did not willingly venture over
them; but summer sun and absence of wind breed fogs, and they might be
at sea in misty weather for a couple or more days with no glimpse of
the land, no chance of taking an observation of the sun, and nothing
but a dead reckoning position to work from. This--since tides,
currents, and wind have a variable effect--might sometimes be anything
up to twenty miles wrong, so destroyers occasionally trespassed upon
the red danger areas without really meaning to do so. How could they
help it?
Liberties should not be taken with mines. They are inventions of the
Evil One, and at the beginning of the war caused many people to suffer
from insomnia; but later on those who did nothing but traverse waters
in which some unscrupulous mine-layer had deposited her eggs lost much
of their dread of them. Familiarity had bred not actually contempt, but
a species of fatalistic indifference which is rather difficult to
describe. A mine explosion is always serious, sometimes disastrous, and
it is never exactly pleasant to know that your ship may be blown up at
any moment, and that you and your shipmates may have to take to the
boats, if there is room in them for all hands and the cook, or if there
is not, to go bathing in life-belts or swimming-collars. Moreover, some
of you may be killed or wounded by the explosion itself, particularly
if it occurs under a magazine; and if it happens close to the enemy's
coast one may possibly be rescued by the Huns and incarcerated in
Germany for the duration of the war. There is a chance of being saved
by a British ship if one is anywhere near; but whichever way one looks
at it, an under-water explosion is never anything but unpleasant to the
victim thereof.
But there is nothing to be gained by worrying. In war one can go to
Kingdom Come in such a variety of ways, all equally violent and all
horrible, that it is as well never to allow the mind to dwell on any
particular method of extinction. People never run unnecessary risks,
naturally; but risks have to be taken, and mines moored beneath the
surface are invisible at any time. 'Floaters,' too, are a source of
danger; and, though mines which have become parted from their moorings
are nominally supposed to be harmless, Hague Conventions and the tenets
of International Law are sometimes disregarded. War has lost its
old-time chivalry. It is now a dirty and an ungentlemanly business--one
at which the modern Hun excels.
III.
One dark winter evening the _Mariner_ and three other destroyers
were groping their way back toward the British coast after being at sea
for two days and two nights. They had had the usual North Sea weather,
thick haze and some rain; but during the later portion of the trip
there had been a gale of wind from the south-west and an unusually bad
sea. Even now, when they were close to the coast, and should have been
more or less under the lee of the land, it still blew hard, with a
heavy perpendicular lop which made the little ships pitch and wallow as
they drove through it. The evening was as black as the mouth of the
nethermost pit, and the sky was completely overcast, while for the last
forty-eight hours they had never had a glimpse of the sun or the land.
Their position, as usual in such circumstances, was more or less an
unknown thing, a mere matter of dead reckoning and guesswork, which
even the constant use of the sounding-machine could not verify.
Making the land after dark in peace-time, with all shore lights
blazing, sometimes gives cause for anxiety; but in war, when all the
lighthouses and lightships are extinguished, when many buoys are
removed, and there are various dangerous mined areas to be dodged and
avoided, it becomes something more than a joke. If mines are known to
be present, the feeling is not at all a pleasant one. It is rather like
being blindfolded and trying to find the door in a pitch-dark room, the
floor of which is well strewn with bombs ready to explode on being
touched. That was the sort of sensation at the back of Wooten's mind.
The _Mariner_ happened to be the third ship in the line of four, and at
five-fifty-one precisely, when the skipper, the sub-lieutenant, and the
usual quartermaster, signalman, and lookouts were on the bridge
watching the next ahead, there came a rumbling, crashing roar from
somewhere close astern. It made the ship dance and tremble, and was
nothing the least like the sharp report of a gun. The sound was more or
less muffled, and the violent, reverberating thud could only be
compared with the sudden banging of a heavy steel velvet-covered door
in a jerry-built villa, if such a thing can be imagined.
Wooten, who had heard such reports before, knew at once what it was.
'God!' he exclaimed anxiously, looking astern; 'some one's got it in
the neck!'
Some one had--the _Monsoon_, the ship astern--and a moment later
her signal-lamp was flickering agitatedly in and out in the darkness.
'Have struck a mine!' she spelt out hastily.
Wooten cursed under his breath. 'These things always happen on nights
like this!' he observed bitterly. 'Just like our rotten
luck!--Signalman!'
'Sir?'
'Tell _Monsoon_ I'm coming to her assistance,' Wooten gave the
necessary orders to the quartermaster at the wheel.--'Hargreaves, have
the boats turned out ready for lowering in case she goes, and send down
to No. 1, and tell him to be ready for taking her in tow. As fast as
you can!'
The sub. hurriedly left the bridge, and Wooten, working the helm and
the twin screws, circled round until his ship was about fifty yards
away from and abreast of the damaged vessel, which had fallen off into
the trough of the sea. The _Mariner's_ men, meanwhile, in all stages
of deshabille, had thronged to the upper deck at the sound of the
explosion, and were making the various necessary preparations.
'Are you all right?' the skipper bellowed as the ship slid slowly past,
rolling heavily.
'I don't know about being all right,' came back a voice. 'My stern,
with the rudder, screws, and the whole bag o' tricks, is missing. I
think she'll float, though.'
'Right! I'll take you in tow!' went back the reply.--'Good Lord!' added
Wooten, swaying to the heavy rolling and looking at the sea; 'it's
going to be the devil's own job, though.'
It was. When a searchlight shone out and illuminated the scene, the
_Monsoon_ seemed to be in a very bad way. She was not rolling very
heavily, for some portion of her damaged stern was still connected to
the hull, causing her to lie over to starboard toward the wind until
the mast was at an angle of thirty degrees to the vertical, and broken
water could be seen washing half-way across her upper deck. The
spectacle was an alarming one, for she seemed to be in some danger of
capsizing.
The _Mariner_, meanwhile, had drawn slightly ahead. She was rolling so
heavily that at one moment her rails were under water, and the next
were high in the air, while the men working on the wet and slippery
deck had the greatest difficulty in preventing themselves from being
hurled bodily overboard.
Wooten manoeuvred his ship until her stern was on a level with the
_Monsoon's_ bows, and about thirty feet distant; where-upon men
stationed aft endeavoured to hurl heaving-lines across on to the
forecastle of the damaged vessel. If a small line could be got across
from ship to ship, the end of it would be made fast to a coir hawser in
the _Monsoon_. The coir would then be dragged over to the _Mariner_,
and on the end of it would be secured the steel-wire towing-hawser, one
end of which would be hauled on board and secured in the towing ship,
and the other in the vessel being towed. But, try as they might, they
could not bridge the space. The wind simply laughed at them, and hurled
their lines back in their faces, while all the time the throwers were
in constant danger of being shot into the sea by the movement. Except
for the glare of the searchlight, it was pitch-dark. Wooten could not
approach any closer for fear of bringing the vulnerable stern, with its
rudder and screws, into collision with the _Monsoon's_ bows, and if he
allowed that to happen his own ship would be disabled and rendered
helpless, and the last state of affairs would be worse than the first.
There was only one alternative, and that was to lower a boat to take
the lines across; but this again was easier said than done.
Hargreaves, the sub-lieutenant, and five men took their places in the
whaler hanging at her davits, and the boat was then lowered gradually
toward the water. The skipper watched them with his heart in his mouth,
for as she descended, and the falls lengthened, the scope of her
oscillation became longer and longer, and dizzier and dizzier. The ship
herself was still rolling horribly, and at one instant the whaler was
swung giddily out at an impossible angle over the water, while the next
she came into contact with the ship's side with a crash and a thump
which threatened to stave in her planks and to precipitate every
mother's son of her crew into the sea. Watching the business was a
ghastly nightmare which seemed to last for minutes. In reality it must
have been over in a few seconds, but Wooten heaved a sigh of heartfelt
relief when he saw the boat fall with a splash on to the top of a
gigantic sea. But the next moment he held his breath again, for she was
flung bodily aft on the crest of the billow until she was all but
deposited on deck as the ship rolled drunkenly toward her. Then she
sank out of sight somewhere under the bottom as the _Mariner_ lurched
over the other way, to reappear a few seconds later, with her crew
plying their oars lustily. How they ever succeeded in getting clear
nobody quite knew, for in that sea only a merciful Providence saved
Hargreaves and his five men from disaster.
The line was passed across by the boat, and the end of the _Monsoon's_
wire hawser was shackled on to a length of chain cable at the
_Mariner's_ stern, and when this had been done the two ships were
connected and everything was ready for going ahead. The whaler was then
rehoisted after another series of hairbreadth experiences, and the
struggle began to get the damaged ship head on to the sea and wind
preparatory to towing her into safety. A bare hour and twenty-four
minutes had passed since the explosion had occurred. To Wooten and his
men it had seemed like half the night.
Pincher Martin, who was on the bridge at one of the engine-room
telegraphs up till midnight, saw and heard all that went on. By the
time the _Monsoon_ was safely in tow both vessels were lying broadside
on to the wind and sea, with their heads to the south-eastward. The
course to get the damaged ship head on to the waves and toward the
shelter of the coast was south-west, and at first Wooten went dead slow
ahead with both engines to tug her round. But it was a more difficult
task than he had bargained for. He could not go fast, for the violent
motion on his ship and the consequent jerking on the towing-wire would
have caused the latter to part like a piece of thread; and even as it
was, the wire was jerking out of the sea one minute, humming like a
harp-string, while the next the bight of it was sagging loosely under
the water. Moreover, a destroyer is not an ideal ship for towing
another at the best of times. The tow-rope necessarily has to be made
fast in the extreme stern, not, as is the case in a properly fitted
tug, more or less amidships in the spot where the vessel pivots when
turning. The consequence is that manoeuvring-power is reduced almost to
a minimum, while on this particular occasion the _Monsoon_, with her
stern cut off and some of the wreckage trailing behind her, lay like a
log on the water, and did her very utmost to pull the _Mariner_ round
the wrong way--that is, to the east, instead of through south to
south-west. It was rather like trying to tow a derelict motor-bus with
a bicycle.
The skipper worked his engines very gingerly, and tautened out the tow
with his helm to port. Then he gradually increased the revolutions of
the turbines until they should have been travelling at eight knots.
'How's her head, coxswain?' he asked after an interval.
'South sixty-five east, sir,' said Willis.
Wooten sighed deeply, and verified the statement by glancing at the
compass. 'Lord!' he said, 'she was there ten minutes ago. Isn't she
moving at all?'
'Wagglin' about a bit,' the coxswain answered, gazing at his
compass-card in his usual imperturbable way. 'She's all over the shop.
Up to sou'-east one minute, an' back to south-eighty the next. She's
just startin' to move to starboard now, sir,' he added eagerly an
instant later. 'Blarst!' in a very audible undertone; 'no, she ain't.
She's startin' to fall off the wrong way.'
'Damn!' Wooten muttered; 'I don't believe we'll ever get her round.'
Willis gave vent to a throaty sigh. He evidently thought the same.
It certainly did seem an impossible job, for with the drag on her stern
the _Mariner_ was practically stationary, while using more speed
was out of the question without running a dangerous risk of snapping
the towing-wire. Time after time the ship's head came round to
south-east, sometimes a few degrees farther; but on each occasion,
after hesitating for a moment or so, she fell back to her original
starting-point, south sixty-five degrees east.
They tugged and tugged for over an hour with no effect. Wooten
exhausted all his unparliamentary vocabulary, and Willis became
speechless and purple about the face; but nothing happened--absolutely
nothing. The _Monsoon_ was making signals all the while--urgent
signals, signals of real distress. 'Please tow me head to sea and wind
as soon as you possibly can,' they said. 'Sea may smash in my after
bulkheads, and cause ship to sink.'
'Am doing my very utmost,' said the _Mariner_ in reply.
They certainly were. They could do no more.
By about eight-thirty, at which time both ships were still in the
trough of the sea, and the _Mariner_ was oscillating like the
pendulum of a clock, thin, drizzling rain came to add to their
discomfort.
'Damn it all!' growled Wooten between his teeth, 'we must do something
drastic. We haven't budged an inch since we started.'
'Please don't go any faster, sir!' protested MacDonald. 'The wire won't
stand it. It's on the verge of carrying away as it is.'
'We shall have to chance it, No. 1. We can't spend the whole night
messing about here like this.'
Wooten solved the difficulty by going slow astern with the starboard
propeller and putting the port engine-room telegraph to 'half-speed
ahead,' and gradually increasing the revolutions of the port screw to
sixteen knots. This exerted a greater thrust, tending to turn the ship
to starboard, and at last, after ten minutes of it, she actually began
to move.
'How's she going now?' Wooten inquired five minutes later.
'Comin' round very, very slow, sir,' said Willis. 'She's at south-forty
east.'
They persevered. Sometimes the ship swung round a matter of ten degrees
or so in the right direction with a rush, only to fall back seven of
them a moment later. Sometimes the lubber's line of the compass went
back beyond the original starting-point, but generally they managed to
gain a degree or two. The _Monsoon_ had been in tow at seven-fifteen,
and it was not until three hours later that they finally got her on to
the desired course of south-west.
The mere recital of the incident seems commonplace and trivial enough;
but to Wooten the period was one of poignant anxiety, for the damaged
ship, judging from what could be seen of her in the glare of the
searchlight, seemed to be on the verge of capsizing. Her signals said
as much, too; and if her bulkheads had burst, and she had turned over,
the _Mariner_, with a wire made fast to her stern, and a gale of
wind blowing, and a sea running in which a small, heavily laden boat
had very little chance of remaining afloat, would have been able to do
little toward saving her crew. They would have attempted it, of course,
but all would probably have perished together. Moreover, in the
darkness and generally bad conditions which prevailed, there was always
the chance that Wooten would have bad luck, and damage, if not lose,
his ship. If he did that people would call him a silly fool behind his
back, and would say he should have known better than to attempt the
impossible, while his career in the service might be marred. If, on the
other hand, he succeeded in doing what he set out to do, the powers
that be might pat him on the back and call him a good boy, but very
possibly would refrain from doing anything of the kind. The standard in
the navy is ever a high one, and in time of war incidents of this kind
are all in the day's work.
But all's well that ends well, and on this particular occasion they did
succeed, and the _Mariner_, with the _Monsoon_ in tow, steamed slowly
off toward the land. The speed they made was roughly three and a
quarter knots, perhaps a trifle less; but it was all in the right
direction, and by midnight the damaged vessel was under the lee of the
shore and in safety. They finally dropped the tow at six o'clock the
next morning, when the skipper, in a sudden fit of exuberance, went on
faster than he really should have done, and promptly parted the wire.
But no harm was done, for by this time they were in calm water, and a
light cruiser was in attendance.
The same afternoon he met the commanding officer of the _Monsoon_.
'Well, Peter,' said the latter, 'we got jolly well out of that show
last night.'
'By George! yes,' Wooten agreed. 'I thought we'd never get you round
head to wind. How did your chaps take it?'
'They weren't particularly cheery at first,' said the other, laughing.
'But as soon as you got us in tow they spent their time singing "Lead,
kindly Light." You know how it brings in "The night is dark, and I am
far from home," so it was quite suitable to the occasion. The ship was
in a shocking mess, though; and when the mine went up it blew the after
storerooms and most of the wardroom into the sea, so we hadn't any
food. We were all jolly glad to get back into harbour again, and it was
only by the mercy of God that we had no casualties.'
Wooten nodded.
'I suppose you know, Peter,' continued the other, 'that we were bang on
the top of a Hun minefield.'
'Minefield! I thought the one that got you was a floater.'
'Don't you believe it. They tell me the place we were in is fairly
thick with 'em. You can thank your lucky stars you didn't bump one.'
The possibility of the _Mariner_ also being blown up had never really
occurred to Wooten at the time. Perhaps it was just as well for him
that it didn't, and that the taking of the _Monsoon_ in tow gave him
little or no time to think of anything else. 'Great Scott!' he
observed, with his usual slow smile and a little whistle of
astonishment; 'I'm glad we didn't come a mucker--jolly glad! What about
a glass of sherry to celebrate the auspicious occasion?'
'I'm on, Peter,' said his friend; 'but I really think it's up to me to
pay for it.'