THE FATAL FOUNTAIN AND END OF U-C 6.
I.
I was sunk a thousand fathoms deep in sleep.
Came a loud rap at my cabin door, the stab of electric light in my
eyes, and a voice saying, "Signal, sir."
The messenger, seeing I was more or less awake, crossed the cabin and
passed me a signal pad. Propping one eye open, I read--
"0348 Trout, XUB top."
"Thanks," I said, and the messenger vanished.
The signal was a wireless fix of a Fritz. Sitting up in bed, I reached
for the squared chart, and examined it. The message, interpreted, meant
that at forty-eight minutes after three o'clock that morning, September
3, a German submarine had been on the surface off the Goodwins.
The commander of the U-boat had reported to Germany by wireless. He
was probably taking no chances in that vicinity, and would not have up
his aerial masts, but would be using as aerials the two jumping wires
which ran from end to end of his boat, passing over his conning-tower
and forming a protection against nets, hawsers, and mines. He could
therefore dive immediately.
However, it was not my pigeon; he was not in the Felixstowe area. So I
switched off the light, turned over, and was immediately asleep.
An hour later I was sitting up in bed again reading a second signal--
"0403 Trout, ANV centre."
"Wait," I said to the messenger.
The repetition of the word "Trout" meant it was the same Fritz again
working wireless. I checked the positions and times of the two fixes
on the chart. The commander of the submarine had come north about ten
miles, and would soon enter the Spider Web. This was a different matter.
"Quartermaster," I said to the waiting messenger.
Jumping out of bed, I pulled on my uniform over my pyjamas, and met the
Quartermaster as he entered the door of the mess. We stood together
and looked across the quarter-deck. It was going to be a misty day. We
walked down to the concrete, and looked across the harbour. Harwich,
on the far side, a mile away, was invisible, but the big light-buoy,
half-way across, could be seen.
"Can do," I said. "We'll take a chance. Turn out the hands; I'll call
the pilots."
The weather had been so unpromising the night before that no early
morning Duty Pilots had been warned off, so I hammered up Dickey for
myself and Cuckney and Clayton for the second boat.
Cuckney was a stout fellow, who had been doing the two-trip-a-night
stunt in carrying bombs from Dunkirk to Zeebrugge.
He was over the Mole one night at a low height in a Snider, a small
float-seaplane, when his engine stopped. He pushed and pulled
everything he could think of, but the engine would not start again, and
he landed in Zeebrugge harbour. Searchlights blinded him, and the Huns
let off everything that would bear. The enemy then saw that his engine
had stopped. Fire ceased, and two launches raced out from the dock to
capture him.
They were right on top of him when he found the trouble: he had opened
the magneto-switch with his elbow. He started his engine, and ran along
the water in front of the launches. And then he zoomed into the air,
followed by howls of disappointment and a hurricane of high explosives.
After working some time at Dunkirk, he felt a bit weary, and somebody,
who mistakenly thought that flying-boat patrols were a rest-cure, sent
him down to Felixstowe.
Quickly despatching breakfast, we got into our two boats, and pushed
off for the Spider Web, Cuckney taking up station on my port-beam,
a quarter of a mile away. The water was invisible, and as he was
travelling at the same speed and in the same direction, he looked to me
as though he were standing still, suspended in the air by an invisible
wire. It was an odd optical illusion.
The farther out we got the thicker got the mist. We could only see any
distance by looking up the molten pathway made by the reflected image
of the sun on the little waves.
After sculling about for two hours, I balanced the boat on the
controls, and quickly climbed out of the first pilot's seat. Dickey was
ready, and popped in. I now devoted my whole energies to observing.
Turning my back on the sun, I tried to pierce the blank wall of fleecy
white.
I saw something sparkle.
It looked like a tiny fountain glittering in the sunlight.
Through the binoculars it showed up as a thin thread of water standing
up all by itself in the middle of the grey, calm, misty sea.
Taking a quick bearing on the compass, I bumped Dickey out of the
control-seat, and swung the head of the boat towards the fountain. I
opened out the engines and shoved the nose down. Looking back, I saw
that Cuckney had turned in behind me.
One minute passed, two minutes, four minutes. We had roared over six
miles of sea, and still I could see the little fountain ahead.
Then I saw the submarine. She was a mile away--a big grey Fritz of the
U-class, long flush deck rising toward the bows, conning-tower between
bow and stern, two guns, one before and one aft of the conning-tower,
and a straight stem. She was shoving through the water at top speed,
about thirteen knots, and above her bow was the little fountain.
It was caused by a thread of water running up her straight stem and
leaping into the air about five feet.
It glittered in the sun.
Two men were on the conning-tower, but they did not see or hear us
coming. We were attacking up wind and down sun. We read part of her
number, U 4?, but the second numeral was blurred.
Forty seconds after seeing the U-boat Dickey pulled the release lever
and dropped one bomb. He threw up his arm. I banked over and looked
down. The bomb had detonated on the starboard side half-way between the
conning-tower and the stern.
The submarine heeled slowly over to port. She stopped in her own length
and began to sink.
Cuckney close behind me passed over. I saw a bomb burst on the
starboard side right in front of the conning-tower. Her decks were now
awash. An explosion occurred in her bow and several smaller explosions
between the stem and the conning-tower.
By this time I was again in position, and Dickey dropped a second bomb.
The bomb detonated about thirty feet away from her. Only the very top
of her conning-tower was showing. And then she vanished.
The little fountain had been fatal.
Later on in the same day, in the vicinity where the submarine had been
met, Gordon and Faux in one boat, and Hallinan and Hodson in another,
were surprised from the rear by four enemy seaplanes. The Huns failed
to get home with the first attack and sheered off, and as they proved
faster than the boats they could not be brought to action.
About this time, on an absolutely clear day, with no wind, and in a
boat with a well-tested compass, conditions under which navigation
should be certain and easy, I was extremely surprised and annoyed to
arrive over the position where I thought the North Hinder should be and
not see her.
I buzzed round in a circle, saw that my compass card was apparently all
right, took a look at my notes of navigation, compared my watch with
the watches of the crew, and then felt quite helpless.
On straightening up the machine, and deciding to carry on the patrol, I
saw a black speck on the water about fourteen miles away. Through the
binoculars I thought it looked like the North Hinder, but it appeared
more bulky than usual and smoke seemed to be coming from it.
Deciding that I had made some silly error in time or course I started
off for the light-ship, and found when I got near it that two tugs were
lugging it along at about six knots towards the Dutch coast. It was
being taken in to be repainted and overhauled. The following day a new
North Hinder, with the paint of the name very white and the red sides
unstained by rust, was lying at the moorings on the shoal. The new
vessel could be told from the old one by a small black ball on the mast
above the lantern, a decoration which the original light-vessel did not
possess.
On the morning of September 13th the Commander of a Harwich submarine
was coming in from a four days' surface patrol outside the mine-fields
in the Bight of Heligoland. He was one of the little lot of submarines
who kept the continuous watch, day and night, for the coming out of
the German High Sea Fleet. But he had been relieved, and had come down
homeward bound past Terschelling, across the Brown Ridge, and when near
the North Hinder, finding he was a bit early, he went to the bottom to
rest.
He had been down but a short time when he heard through the E-boat's
ears, which are hydrophones, the propeller noises of another submarine.
It was on the surface and passed directly over him.
He was just about to give the order to blow the tanks and come up and
stalk the Fritz, when two heavy underwater explosions shook his boat.
He remained on the bottom. He listened for a long time. But with the
explosions the propeller noises had ceased abruptly and did not start
again. Finally he came up to periscope depth, took a good look around,
saw nothing, and broke water.
He said: "I started in for Harwich on the surface. I hung out all
my signal flags, let some of the crew stand on deck, and looked as
friendly as possible."
While the E-boat was down at the bottom of the sea and the Fritz was up
above churning up the muddy water with her twin propellers, a Beef Trip
was threshing along on the surface, and up in the air, in the sunlight,
were the flying-boats.
The pilots of the two flying-boats, on their way out to the Beef Trip,
saw the Fritz on the surface and whooped over to investigate.
But the pilots of the first boat to pass over him, knowing our own
submarine was expected to be in the vicinity at this time, and not
identifying the submarine as a German, passed over without bombing him.
They did not know that the Commander of the E-boat was lying snug on
the bottom.
The Commander of the U-boat, who was out after the Beef Trip, when he
saw the first boat pass over, gave orders to dive and waited for the
bombs which did not come.
Billiken and Dickey, in the second boat, got into position when only
the light-grey conning-tower, with a tumble of white water behind it,
was showing. But they recognised him as a Fritz and let him have two
bombs. They circled over the spot for some time, and finally saw oil
coming up, which spread, and spread, and spread.
Things now moved rather fast. On September 15 Young and Barker bombed a
submarine. Poor Young, almost at the very end of the war, was shot at
the controls of his boat in a fight against heavy odds off Borkum. He
landed the boat safely in spite of the terrible wound, and died before
the boat had stopped running on the water. The rest of the crew were
made prisoners, setting the boat on fire before being taken off.
On the same day Perham and Gooch had a brush with three enemy
seaplanes, and Hallinan and Hodson in one boat, and Gordon and Faux in
another, dropped four bombs on a Fritz on the 25th.
While on a Beef Trip with Watson on F 2 C, an experimental boat, I
sighted an enemy submarine about eight miles away and hastened towards
it at eighty knots.
The boat was fitted with a marvellous arrangement of brass taps, pipes,
a compressed air bottle, and a long release lever. This was a gadget
for dropping bombs by compressed air, which, according to its proud
inventor, was to supersede the good old way of dropping them by pulling
a bowden wire.
When over the submarine the lever was pulled, but the compressed air
escaped with a derisive hiss and the bombs refused to leave the racks.
The submarine submerged and a destroyer summoned to the place dropped
depth charges, but there is a feeling that Fritz went off safely about
his business.
The area was now being made so hot for Fritz that the Germans began to
be convoyed up through it by destroyers.
II.
U-C 6 pushed out from Zeebrugge before daybreak.
It was on September 28, a thick day, a very thick day.
With her were three other U-boats, three destroyers, and two float
seaplanes.
The Commander of U-C 6 kept station in advance of the other three
submarines as they passed through the swept channels into the North
Sea. He was fully blown. The whole flotilla rippled along at eight
knots.
The U-C 6 was an old boat, the last survivor of fifteen similar
mine-layers. But it was his first command, and he was very proud
of her. She had just been overhauled. Her paintwork was bright and
the brass inside shone. True, she only had one periscope, but they
had mounted a 22-pounder for him in front of the conning-tower, an
ornament which no other of her class had carried. It was an old gun and
not very accurate, and the recoil, when he tested it, had threatened to
sheer the holding-down bolts or pull up the deck. But, as he said, it
was better than nothing.
He led the flotilla up the coast of Belgium until he came to the
Schouen Bank buoy, with its red lattice-work top hamper surmounted by
a ball. Here he turned west towards England, along the northern edge
of one of our mine-fields. At half-past eight o'clock he touched the
southern arm of the Spider Web.
Suddenly, in the mist, only a mile away, he saw, six hundred feet in
the air, a black body with wings.
At the sharp word of command his gun crew raced along the narrow deck
to the 22-pounder. The breach was snapped open, a shell shoved home,
the gun elevated, and then its discharge shook the whole structure of
the submarine, which had not been designed to take the recoil.
The shell burst just in front of the flying-boat.
As the gun flashed the Hun Commander saw a long narrow object detach
itself from beneath a wing of the boat.
It began to fall.
It wabbled slightly at first, but steadied.
It was coming straight towards him on a slanting path. Its black nose
was pointing downwards and it looked to be travelling sideways.
In a shattering roar his universe disintegrated.
Partially stunned, shaking, and bleeding from a long gash across his
scalp, he stumbled to his feet.
Passing his hand through his hair he felt that it was wet. He looked at
it stupidly and saw that it was red. He could not understand.
He looked at the stern of his boat. The superstructure was torn away,
and the steel deck, rent open like a sardine tin, gaped like a great
lacerated mouth, the twisted metal turning up at the edges. His gun
crew had vanished, where he knew not, but a pallid hand appeared
above the surface of the water beside him, flapped feebly, made a few
ripples, and disappeared.
Pulling himself together, and acting by instinct, he dropped down
into the wrecked boat. At the foot of the conning-tower ladder he
splashed into water. All electric lights were out. The interior was
in darkness, except for the light from the conning-tower hatchway and
the tear in the deck. He swayed unsteadily on his feet on the slippery
deck, which sloped sharply down aft.
His crew below had been killed or stunned by the force of the explosion
within the cramped and confined steel walls. A sodden mass, shapeless
and horrible, washing against his feet, had been his second in command.
The once orderly interior, a maze of intricate machinery, cunningly and
carefully arranged by the sane intellect of an engineer, was distorted
and twisted into an insane jumble. The bottom of the boat had been
blown out at the stern, and he realised dimly that it was only the air
in the tanks that was keeping her afloat. The chlorine gas, generated
by the sea water mixing with the sulphuric acid in the storage
batteries, bit into his lungs. The stern was sinking.
He felt sick. He had a great desire to get out of it all. He seized the
lower rungs of the iron ladder.
A second heavy explosion shook the boat. Her stern went down suddenly.
There was no light. He was thrown into the water.
The submarine sank.
Between the bow of the boat and the water was an air space. He flopped
feebly on the surface in the inky blackness.
It was the end.
He let himself sink.
Only two minutes had elapsed from the time the flying-boat had been
first sighted.
Up above in the mist were Billiken and Dickey in the flying-boat. They
had pushed off that morning from Felixstowe in company with another
boat, but the pilots in the second boat had found the mist too thick
and had returned.
Suddenly, dead ahead, they had seen the U-C 6. As they roared towards
her they saw her gun crew gather round the 22-pounder, and as Dickey
pulled the release lever a shell burst just in front of their bow. The
bomb hit the stern of the submarine.
Shells were now bursting all around them. This, to the pilots, was a
mystery, for the gunners on U-C 6 were no longer at the 22-pounder.
Then through the mist, and about a mile away, gun flashes were seen,
and the crew of the flying-boat made out three submarines in line
abreast firing at them. Behind the submarines were three destroyers,
and behind the destroyers were two float seaplanes.
The pilots saw that U-C 6 was in serious trouble. She was down by the
stern, the water was up to her conning-tower, and her bow was sticking
up in the air. But they knew that submarines are hard to kill dead,
often getting back to port after damage which makes the feat appear
miraculous, and they were taking no chances.
Disregarding the shell fire, the flying-boat was taken again across
the submarine, and the second bomb was dropped from a low height. It
detonated immediately in front of the bow. With the explosion the whole
structure of the submarine vibrated, she slid down backward under the
water, and left on the surface, to show where she had gone down, a
large quantity of blackish oil, foreign matter, and a silver cluster of
breaking air bubbles, a cluster ever renewed from below.
Immediately on receipt at Felixstowe of the signal about the enemy
destroyers and the sinking of U-C 6, flying-boats were shoved down the
slipways and boomed out over the North Sea. Cuckney and Clayton sighted
a hostile seaplane close to the water, but it sheered off and was lost
in the mist. Young and Keesey found another enemy seaplane and chased
it until it led them to two enemy destroyers. It was now very thick
indeed, the mist changing rapidly into a fog, and while climbing to get
well above the enemy in order to bomb them, the pilots lost their way
and failed to find the surface ships again.
The following day, which was still misty, Gordon and Faux, while ten
miles south-east of the North Hinder, saw a ripple on the surface, a
streak of white water, and then the conning-tower of a U-boat breaking
surface. It navigated along awash at about five knots. The pilots were
at thirteen hundred feet.
Gordon dived, to eight hundred feet, but Fritz had seen him coming and
submerged twenty seconds before the two bombs exploded about the place
he should have been.
It was thought that this submarine was at least damaged, for when the
black circles left by the explosion of the bombs had cleared away, oil
came to the surface, and by the time the pilots left the vicinity it
was covering a fair-sized area.
III.
October was almost the last good month of submarine hunting to be had.
Four enemy submarines were sighted, but their commanders were keeping
a good look-out while in the Spider Web, and only one was bombed, by
Hodgson and Wilson.
The 23rd of October was rather a dirty day, with a falling barometer,
and that unpleasant taste to the north-west wind which usually means
trouble of some sort for somebody.
The Harwich Light Forces were off the Dutch coast looking for the
elusive Hun, and sundry patrols had therefore been shoved out from
Felixstowe. Two of these boats, Tiny in charge of one and Perham and
Gooch in the other, boomed off at ten o'clock to look in the Spider Web.
On starting out Tiny's wireless operator let the aerial wire run off
the reel unchecked, so that when it fetched up with a round turn at the
end, the weight snapped off the copper wire just inside the boat. This
made it impossible for him to send or receive wireless signals.
About twelve o'clock, at a position about ten miles south of the
North Hinder, Tiny missed Perham's boat. Turning back on his course he
searched for the missing boat, but failing to see it, concluded that
the pilots had pushed off for harbour with engine trouble. But not
being certain, he released a pigeon with a message, giving details, and
continued the search.
After the boats went out the wind kept steadily rising. Wireless
signals sent out warning the two boats were not answered. Messages were
sent up and down the coast asking for news. Then a pigeon dropped down
on the ledge outside its loft, walked through the swinging wires which
rang a bell, and so into a little cage. The pigeoner, warned by the
bell, went into the loft, removed the crumpled slip of flimsy paper
from the carrier, and sent it down to the station.
Two boats were shoved out on the slipway and their engines warmed. Then
Tiny came into the harbour and reported that he had been unable to find
the missing boat.
In spite of the rapidly rising wind, which had now got to thirty knots,
the quickly decreasing daylight, and the barometer that was falling
with ominous persistence, Gordon and Faux, and Hodgson and Wilson,
volunteered to go out and look for Perham. They pushed off in two
boats from the slipway. The harbour was a froth of whitecaps, and the
boats took off in a smother of spray.
Half an hour later a great-hearted pigeon came battling in against the
quartering breeze carrying a message from Perham. Smoothing out the
crumpled paper on the desk in the flying office we read the signal.
"Port engine crank-shaft fractured. Good landing. Approximate position
ten miles south of North Hinder."
I rang up the naval authorities at Harwich, informed them of the state
of affairs, and asked for assistance. I was told that the Harwich
flotilla had run into a mine-field off the Dutch coast. The flagship
of Rear-Admiral Tyrwhitt had struck a mine with her stern and the
explosion had detonated a depth charge carried on her counter. She was
returning to port at about two knots, with the sea that was running
outside, and all available destroyers were required to guard the
disabled light cruiser. However, help would be sent.
At dusk the two flying-boats returned. The pilots had made the North
Hinder, had gone ten miles south and had searched a large area, but
had failed to locate Perham.
And then a signal came in that the two destroyers sent to the position
had been unable to find the flying-boat.
With the shutting down of night the wind increased in violence. In the
open, when you stood up to it, it was like a solid wall.
The disabled cruiser outside was in a precarious condition, and many of
her attendant destroyers had to leave her and return to Harwich, making
heavy weather of it.
The wind got up to forty knots, fifty knots, and finally to sixty knots
in gusts. The wooden mess groaned and protested beneath the heavy hand
of the storm.
To a chorus of chattering windows, fierce spurts of smoke from the
stove due to violent back drafts down the chimney, a chart was spread
out on the Staff-room table and the probable course of the drifting
flying-boat was laid out. All this, with the reservation in our own
minds, if the boat would live through the gale. But it was at least
something to do, and three boats stood ready to push off next morning,
if required.
A chart is a representation of a portion of the surface of the earth
intended to be useful to a seaman, and it therefore deals in detail
with the portions of the earth covered with water. It gives the
positions of lights and buoys, details of the sea bottom, and heights,
magnetic variations, and soundings.
We drew a line on the chart from the positions, ten miles south of the
North Hinder, where Perham had come down, towards the Dutch coast. This
represented the direction the boat would drift owing to the wind.
The flying-boat, with two sea-anchors out, checking the drift, and
also with weigh knocked off owing to the tossing of the waves, would
probably not drift faster than three knots. Therefore the wind line was
dotted off at three mile intervals.
Beside the movement due to the wind the flying-boat would move with
the tide, so the set due to the tide was dotted on the chart at right
angles to each three-mile mark.
When these dots were joined a wavy line was the result, a line first
setting away from the main line of drift, then coming back to it,
crossing it, and then setting away in the other direction. When the
line got near the Dutch coast it could not be calculated owing to the
curious currents, rips and eddies, set up by the low-lying nature of
the land.
It was seen at once that the three boats would not be required next
day. For Perham would drift past the Schouen Bank light-buoy about two
o'clock in the morning and would be off the Dutch coast at Schouen by
daybreak.
If the boat lived.
An extra heavy gust shook the building, and a great fall of soot down
the chimney almost beat out the fire.
There was a general feeling of thankfulness and relief when the Duty
Steward entered and asked if any one wished to give an order before the
bar closed.
When, with a grinding crash, the crank-shaft of his port engine
fractured, Perham snapped off the switches and glided down to the water.
It was just twelve o'clock noon.
He saw Tiny in the air in front of him, roaring along with his
well-found engines turning off a steady sixty knots. The clouds were
rather low and the air at a thousand feet was hazy. Gooch fired Very's
lights, but the crew of Tiny's boat did not see them, and boomed on.
The wind was blowing about twenty knots from England, and a bigger sea
was running than the wind seemed to warrant--always a bad sign.
The crew got out two sea-anchors to check the drift and keep the bow
of the flying-boat from yawing off the wind. They fitted the covering
over the forward cockpit to keep out water thrown over the bows. The
bombs were dropped safe in order to lighten the boat. The engine was
carefully examined.
The wicker pigeon basket was passed forward and the message-book taken
from the pocket at the side. Two messages were written and rolled up.
The wireless operator opened one of the two lids, took out a pigeon,
inserted a message in the holder, shoved home the cap, and threw the
pigeon into the air, head to wind. The crew watched the bird rise,
circle twice, and start off for home. When it was out of sight the
second pigeon, with the duplicate message, was released.
As the daylight hours passed the weight of the wind increased. The
waves got higher, and finally their crests began to break. Riding to
her sea-anchors the boat sat high and free. But as darkness set in the
waves began to throw the water over the bow into the pilot's cockpit.
The petrol in the tanks, splashing about, gave off a heavy vapour
which filled the boat, and this, with the pitching, added sea-sickness
to the discomforts of the crew; for petrol vapour will make the
stoutest-hearted seaman wish he had never sold his little farm.
Later on, blowing backwards through the darkness, as the force of
the gale increased and the waves got higher, the flying-boat began
to roll from side to side. The wing-tip floats on the lower planes
buried themselves in the sea--first on one side and then on the other.
When they did this a great weight of water poured over the planes,
wrenching, twisting, and tearing with all the leverage afforded by the
length of the wing.
Perham thought of making an attempt to cut off the fabric on the lower
planes in order to prevent the water from getting a grip.
Instead of this the crew took turns at standing, two at a time, on the
lower wings, one outboard from each engine, and as a float went under
the man on the opposite wing would scramble out on the plane as fast
as possible, his weight tending to right the flying-boat. It was a
hazardous expedient.
About two o'clock in the morning the crew saw the Schouen Bank
light-buoy.
Here in the very shoal water, and with the clear sweep of ninety miles
behind them, the waves were perilously steep, and the trough being
retarded by the bottom the crests were breaking forward in a thunder of
foam.
The sea-anchors carried away.
The boat, rolling and pitching, yawed first one way and then the other.
Each time she got off the wind white water was driven across her
from bow to stern. The crew were blinded and drenched. The wracking
strained the boat, and she began to leak. The wood on the bottom of the
flying-boat was not over a quarter of an inch thick. One man had to
work the bilge-pump continuously, and the three other men in the crew
bailed.
Finally they were over the shoal. The seas here, though big, were not
so bad, as their force was somewhat expended in the shallow water.
With the coming of the dawn the worn-out crew saw that they were
off the coast of Holland. There were long white sandhills and green
hummocks, and a lighthouse with a circular stone tower and a black
gallery, and Perham knew that they had made a landfall at the Hook
of Schouen. They were now being carried parallel with the coast by a
strong current, so they made an attempt to start up the one good engine
so as to taxi in to shore. After great difficulty they succeeded. Then
they saw a Dutch gunboat, rolling heavily in the sea, approaching them.
They shut down the engine.
The code-book, with its weighted covers, was thrown overboard.
The chart, weighted with machine-gun cartridges, was sent after it.
The wireless installation was pulled out and tossed over the side, and
the machine-guns and ammunition followed.
Perham retained one machine-gun.
The gunboat hove to to windward and gave the flying-boat a lee. It
dropped a boat, which pulled down to them. The engineer and wireless
man scrambled on board, followed by Gooch. They shouted to Perham to
follow.
Perham was busy with the machine-gun breaking a hole in the bottom of
his flying-boat. So far no neutral or enemy Power had had a boat to
examine at leisure. When finished, he joined the rest of the crew.
But once aboard the cutter, not satisfied with the way his boat was
sinking, he seized a boat-hook and broke a hole in the tail, for the
tail contained a water-tight compartment.
The gunboat's crew made an attempt to salve the flying-boat, but were
unsuccessful, as she sank. An attempt to grapple for her five days
later also failed--only the engines being recovered.
The cable announcing the safety of Perham and his crew was received at
Felixstowe before seven o'clock, on the same morning.
IV.
November had sixteen flying days, and one submarine was bombed by Tiny
and Moody on the 3rd.
And now there comes a little yarn which might be entitled: The Pirates,
the Birdman, and the Grateful Fisherman, and could be told thus:--
A poor but honest Dutch fisherman had cast his nets and made a great
haul of fish. His smack was filled to overflowing. He was exceedingly
joyful, for he had a wife and three at home, and was expecting another.
But, as he was thinking with pleasure of the pieces of silver which the
finny spoil of the sea would put in his pocket, the sun was obscured,
the wind blew, and the sea rose in mountainous waves.
When the wind abated and the waves subsided the smack was far from
land, and neither the fisherman nor any of his men knew in what part of
the sea they were.
While consulting with each as to what had best be done, the water near
them boiled, a mysterious white wave broke along the surface, and a
loathly grey monster of the deep heaved itself out of the sea and lay
beside them. On its back were pirates--bloodthirsty men, outlaws, a
cut-throat crew--the deeds which they and their fellows had committed
having made the whole world shudder.
The poor fisherman and his men shook with terror.
The Chief of the Pirates, in a terrible voice, demanded that the
fisherman come to him, so with great reluctance and many misgivings he
put a small boat over the side, rowed slowly across, and was taken up
on the back of the horrible sea-monster.
To him the Chief of the Pirates said in great anger, "We had a secret
channel, of which none knew, through the dangers beneath the waters
set for us by our enemies. Across the entrance to the channel I have
found strong nets and cunning machines placed to destroy me. And you,
miserable man, are floating over the very spot. Prepare yourself for
destruction."
The poor fisherman protested his innocence of all knowledge of the
trap, pleaded his wife and three, and the other that was expected, but
it availed nothing. With a sorrowful heart he got into his little boat,
and rowed towards his smack, thinking best how to tell his men of the
fate in store for them.
But before he had completed the short journey he heard a roar in the
air, and looking up he saw a huge grey bird approaching with two great
eggs under its wings.
Fear now fell upon the pirates, and they incontinently caused their
monster to dive, disappearing instantly beneath the waves. The great
bird circled over the fisherman twice, the men on its back signalling
to him, and then flew away.
While yet the fisherman and his men were congratulating each other on
their narrow escape, swift ships, driven by fire, appeared. A strong
rope was thrown to the fisherman, which he made fast to the bow of his
smack, and he was pulled along the water at an incredible speed to the
Island of England. Here he was brought before a man in authority, who
had laid the trap for the pirates--a man clad in rich blue and gold,
and with a gold hat on his head. After answering questions for many
hours, the fisherman was allowed to send his fish to the market, in the
fabulously rich city of London, and received more pieces of silver than
he had hoped for.
Indeed, if the one expected proved to be two, he could now easily
afford it.
The grateful fisherman asked to be allowed to thank the Birdman who had
rescued him, and one, Billiken, was sent for. The fisherman hailed him
as his saviour, enveloped him in a long, odorous, fish-scaly embrace,
and attempted to reward him by pouring out at his feet all the silver
he had obtained for his fish.
But the Birdman in a noble voice replied, "For what little I did I want
no reward, but please do not embrace me again; the emotion I experience
is more than I can bear."
That afternoon the fisherman and his men set out for home, all the
sails of their smack set and drawing in a fair wind, and English silver
jingling in their pockets.
Two days before Christmas, Tiny and Moody barged into two Fritzes,
apparently in a great hurry to get home before the 25th. One of them
was presented with two big bombs as a Christmas-box.
About this time, while tearing through the sea at full speed in the
dark, the Harwich Light Forces bumped into a newly-laid mine-field off
the Dutch coast. Four destroyers were damaged and a cargo-boat sunk.
As it was not known if the destruction was due to mines or a nest of
submarines, an urgent request was made to the War Flight to send a
flying-boat across to photograph the wreck of the cargo-boat, which
showed above water at low tide.
The weather was impossible.
But every little while a request would come through by telephone
asking for an explanation as to why the desired photographs were not
forthcoming. With each repetition of the request the telephone became
more and more impatient.
On December 27 Clayton and Purdy pushed off to try and get the
photographs. It was a bad day. A twenty-five knot wind was blowing.
They returned very shortly and reported--
"Wind very strong, and visibility six miles from coast, nil. Had to
turn back before even reaching Shipwash, as heavy clouds reaching to
the water barred progress in every direction."
But this did not satisfy the telephone.
Clayton and myself pushed out at noon. It was a wretched flying day.
The clouds were low, snow-squalls swept down before the north-east
wind, and the air was bumpy. The heavy boat wallowed in the rough
air. With the exertion of handling her I broke out in a perspiration.
Although it was bitterly cold, I pulled off my short flying-coat and
gauntlets.
We drove at seventy knots through low clouds and snow-flurries for an
hour. But against the head wind we had only won forty-two sea miles
from Felixstowe. Here, barring our path, was a nasty-looking bank of
snow-clouds reaching to the water. We turned north to skirt them and
look for an opening. Heavy gusts shook the boat: she rolled from side
to side, answering her controls slowly; it was impossible to steer a
decent compass course.
[Illustration: Dutch Sailing-vessel photographed from a Flying-boat.]
Within five minutes of changing course the engineer came forward and
shouted in my ear that the inboard petrol pipe on the port engine was
leaking badly. Then he climbed out on the wing and attempted to bind it
with tape. The attempt was not successful.
I turned the nose of the boat for home. She started down wind at a
rate of knots. In ten minutes we were eighteen miles on the homeward
stretch. And the petrol pipe split from end to end. It was too bumpy to
fly on one engine, so I shut both off and made a landing. The boat had
a new design hull, and got into the heavy sea with ease. She rode light
and free.
Three destroyers were slipping along at slow speed, about a mile away,
rolling heavily in the beam sea. One of them turned out of line and
headed for us. Her Commander flashed a signal asking if we wanted a
tow. We did. The wind was blowing about thirty knots, and increasing.
The Commander crossed our bows, and a heaving-line snaked out. But with
the wind and tide we were drifting very fast, and the line fell short.
As the destroyer came around I put over a sea-anchor. This time the
destroyer stopped across our bows. The heaving-line reached us. But we
were in the lee, and our drift was checked. The destroyer, broadside on
to the wind, came down on us before the sea-anchor could be cast adrift.
A wave threw us against the steel side. Once, twice, and with a
crackling of mahogany the bow of the flying-boat was crushed in down
to the water-line. One of the wings went on board the destroyer,
and threatened to dump overboard the mines she was carrying on her
stern. The crew of the destroyer, now all activity, fended us off
with boat-hooks, hands, feet, and anything available. I cast off the
sea-anchor. The destroyer went ahead. We drifted clear. The three other
members of the crew were out on the tail keeping the bow out of the
water.
I pulled in the heaving-line. To it was attached a grass line which I
made fast to the towing pennant. We fitted a leather flying-coat over
the hole in the bow. The destroyer went slowly ahead, and we followed
after. The tow parted in an hour. Again the destroyer came alongside,
again the bow was damaged, and again, after a time, the grass line
parted.
It was now dark. A wire hawser was sent across, and we made it fast.
The wire sank down in the water, and when the destroyer went ahead
the bow of the flying-boat was pulled down. The flying-coat held for
an instant, burst inwards, the sea rushed in, cascaded over the front
bulkhead, and flooded the hull from bow to stern. The top of the boat
was just above the surface of the water.
Luckily I was standing with the Very's pistol in my hand. I discharged
it, and the destroyer stopped.
I reached down in the boat for the pigeons. Poor birds, they were
drowned. The boat pitched forward suddenly, and the wireless operator
and myself were thrown into the water. We climbed up again. But before
I could do so I had to kick off a fine new pair of thigh-length
flying-boots, woolly inside, which sank, and were lost.
A cutter was dropped from the destroyer to take us all off, and the
Commander made a determined effort to salve the boat or the engines,
but it ended in failure, the boat finally sinking.
This was the last patrol to be carried out in 1917.
In the eight and a half months of the life of the War Flight it had
received fourteen flying-boats in all, five of which were still in
good condition. With this small amount of material the pilots had
carried out five hundred and fifty-four patrols, flown a distance of
seventy-seven thousand and five hundred sea miles, brought a Zeppelin
down in flames, sighted forty-four enemy submarines, and bombed
twenty-five of them.
[Illustration]