Man Overboard
"Party, fall in! Sergeant, march the men aft report to the Second
Mate for boat drill. Until you are dismissed you will take your
orders from him."
Sergeant Carr saluted, and then devoted his attention to the squad
fallen in on the upper deck. They were a set of stalwarts, but
without exception were up-country farmers and sheep-shearers before
they left New Zealand for the still distant Front. Until they joined
the S.S. _Awarua_ at Wellington, very few of them had ever seen a
ship's boat.
Transport 99 was forging ahead at a modest 10 or 11 knots. The
21-knot cruiser, although steaming under natural draught, was
cutting rings round her charge, as if reproaching her for her
tardiness. The wind was abeam and fairly fresh, making the old
_Awarua_ roll heavily.
Aft on the port side of the poop stood the Second Mate, a short,
bull-necked, burly man, whose attitude, suggested a bored interest
in the work in hand. He had the old salt's pitying contempt for
"flat-footed landlubbers". Very many times since the outbreak of war
had he been called upon to instruct troops in boat drill, and never
had he seen any practical result of his labours. The monotony of
imparting boat knowledge into the heads of men who possessed not the
slightest inclination towards things nautical irritated him.
Forgetting that his instruction classes were composed of men who
were not seamen, he was apt to give orders without explaining the
precise nature of the various terms he employed, and failure on the
part of his audience to follow his deep-sea phrases reduced him to a
state of profanity.
The boat selected for the drill was a "double-ender" life-boat
hanging in the old-fashioned style of davits. The davits were swung
inboard, the boat resting on "chocks" or hinged pieces of wood
shaped to fit the lower strakes of the boat.
"Now then," began the Second Officer. "In the event of this craft
being torpedoed, you men will form the crew of this boat. At a
prolonged blast on the syren all hands will come to attention and
await orders. At the bugle-call you will throw off coats and boots,
put on life-belts--suppose you know by this time _how_ to put 'em
on?--and fall in by numbers, facing outboard. We'll take the
life-belts for granted."
The men received this part of the instruction without emotion. They
had heard it many times before.
"You are bow, and you are stroke," continued the Second Mate,
addressing two of the men.
"Stroke the bow-wow, Tommy," whispered a wag in an audible aside.
"Now we are getting on. We'll finish up with a bloomin' menagerie."
"Silence, there!" snapped the instructor. "Bow and stroke will jump
into the boat, see that the plug is inserted, and hook the
falls--four hands to man each of the falls. You," addressing the
would-be humorist, "will attend to the gripes----"
"Should have thought that was a job for the doctor," remarked the
man _sotto voce_, at which several of the men within hearing began
to laugh.
"This is no laughing matter, you pack of jackanapes," bawled the now
infuriated ship's officer. "You'd feel a bit sick if you found
yourselves in the ditch through not knowing how to lower away. Now,
then, together."
Out swung the davits, the task rendered difficult by the roll of the
ship, until the boat was ready for lowering.
The Second Mate looked at the surging water, and considered the
erratic rolling motion of the lofty hull. To lower away with a
practised crew manning the falls would entail a certain amount of
risk should the boat surge against the ship's side; with a crowd of
raw amateurs the danger was magnified threefold.
"Good enough!" he ordered. "We'll suppose the lowering and hoisting
part is done. I'll put you through that another day when there's
less sea. Now, stand by."
A shrill rasping of chain and an involuntary cry of mingled surprise
and apprehension from the two in the boat interrupted the Second
Officer's explanation. Accidentally the "stroke" had released the
after disengaging-gear. The next instant the boat was hanging
vertically, held only by the for'ard tackle.
The bowman, making a frantic grab at the upper block of the davit,
hung on like grim death until his feet found a hold on the edge of
the foremost thwart. The boat, swinging like a gigantic pendulum,
was doing her best to stave in her quarter against the ship's side.
The "stroke" was not so fortunate. With the release of the gear the
lower block dealt him a numbing blow on the shoulder. Unable to
grasp any object that might afford security, he fell with
considerable force into the sea.
"Man overboard!" shouted the Second Officer, and picking up a
life-belt he hurled it close to the spot where the luckless fellow
had disappeared. Almost at the same time the sentry let fall the
patent life-buoy.
For some minutes the rest of the squad were too taken aback by the
suddenness of the catastrophe to grasp the situation. The bowman,
more scared than hurt, although considerably shaken, clambered out
of the boat and gained the deck.
"Good heavens," ejaculated Malcolm, "the man overboard can't swim a
stroke!" Heedless of the fact that of all the party he was the only
one who had not removed his boots, Malcolm ran aft. With a bound he
cleared the rail and dived overboard.
Fortunately for him, the _Awarua_ was moving at a comparatively low
speed. As it was, in spite of the momentum of his leap, he struck
the water obliquely, and with a thud that temporarily winded him.
Coming to the surface, he took in a deep breath of salt-laden air,
rubbed the water from his eyes, and looked for the missing man.
On the crest of a roller he espied the rifleman's head and shoulders
and outstretched arms. In the interval that had elapsed between the
accident and Malcolm's dive the ship had travelled a good hundred
yards. Midway between the would-be rescuer and the object of his
attentions floated the life-buoy, its position clearly indicated by
a cloud of calcium smoke. He could see no sign of the life-belt.
Using a powerful trudgeon stroke, Malcolm started and swam towards
the spot where he had caught a momentary glimpse of the man. In less
than two dozen strokes he found that his saturated sleeves hampered
his arms. His boots, too, were acting as a drag, yet there was no
time to tread water and kick them off.
On the crest of the third roller Malcolm again caught sight of the
man. He had ceased to struggle and was floating without any apparent
motion, his head and shoulders clear of the water.
Changing to breast stroke, Carr slid down the slope of the long
roller. Then, as he rose on the succeeding crest, he found that he
was within ten yards of the man.
"Hang it all!" thought Malcolm as he approached. "I might have saved
myself a job. He's better off than I am. The bounder's wearing a
life-saving waistcoat."
"Hallo, Sergeant!" gurgled the rifleman. "Did that rotten boat sling
you out too? When are they going to pick us up? The water's none too
warm. I'm feeling nipped already."
"Oh, it's you, Macready!" exclaimed Malcolm, recognizing a
Canterbury farmer, a fellow of magnificent physique. "When are they
going to pick us up, you ask? Can't say. I rather fancy they'll have
to reverse engines and stop before they lower a boat. That will take
some time."
He waited until he found himself on the crest of a long roller, and
then looked in the direction of the _Awarua_. The transport was now
nearly two miles away. Whether she had slowed down or was still
steaming ahead he could not determine. As far as he could see there
were no signs of a boat being lowered.
Macready was certainly right about the low temperature of the sea.
Already Carr felt the numbing effect of the water. His fingers as he
fumbled with the laces of his boots were practically devoid of
feeling.
"I have one of those air waistcoats," explained the man. "It's only
partly filled. Much as I could manage to do, that. I guess there's a
tidy drop of water got in while I was blowing. If we can get more
wind into the thing it'll support two; at least I hope so. The
fellow at the stores said it would."
"Don't trouble on my account," said Malcolm. "I'll swim to the
life-buoy and bring it back."
The patent life-saving device was still emitting dense clouds of
calcium smoke. Provided the expected rescuing-boat made for that
there was a good chance of Malcolm and the rifleman being picked up,
unless in the meanwhile they were overcome by the acute coldness of
the water.
"Any signs of a boat, Sergeant?" asked the man, as Malcolm,
evidently exhausted by his exertions, pushed the life-buoy before
him to within arm's length of his companion in peril.
Malcolm was reluctantly obliged to admit that the probability of
rescue from that direction was of a diminishing nature. The _Awarua_
was still holding on her course.
"Suppose they think that as we were a pair of fools to be slung
overboard we aren't worth picking up," continued Macready.
Malcolm did not reply. He did not attempt to enlighten the man as to
the reason why there were two "in the ditch" instead of one. He was
also at a loss to explain the apparent callousness of the
responsible officer of Transport 99 in not promptly lowering a boat
and effecting a speedy rescue.
The two men were too intent upon the disappearing _Awarua_ to notice
the approach of the escorting cruiser. The latter was circling round
the transport, and was on the point of turning at a distance of a
mile astern, when the alert officer of the watch noticed the
accident to the boat.
Bringing his telescope to bear upon the _Awarua_, he could see quite
clearly the life-boat hanging by the bow tackle only. As he looked
he was a distant witness of Sergeant Carr's leap into the sea.
Instinctively he grasped the situation and took prompt measures. At
his orders a signalman on the fore bridge set the arms of the
semaphore at "Attention". When the transport acknowledged the
preparatory signal the semaphore began to spell out its message:
"Carry on; we'll pick up your man."
"Away sea-boat's crew," was the next order, and quickly the falls
were manned, and the boat, containing her full complement, lowered
until the keel was within a few feet of the water. Meanwhile the
cruiser's engines had been reversed until her speed diminished five
knots.
"Lower away!" was the next order.
With a resounding "smack" the boat "landed" on the crest of a wave.
Dexterously the patent releasing-gear was operated, and, carried
onward with the momentum imparted by the still-moving cruiser, the
sea-boat shot away from the side of her parent.
The order, "Give way, lads, for all you're worth!" given by the
midshipman in charge, was somewhat unnecessary. At the prospect of
saving life every man was pulling his hardest. The sharp bows of the
boat literally cleft the water.
"Way 'nough. In bow," ordered the midshipman, a youth of sixteen or
seventeen with the assurance of a successful barrister.
As neatly as if he were bringing a picket-boat alongside the
flagship under the super-critical eye of the admiral, the midshipman
steered the boat close to the wellnigh exhausted men. Ready hands
lifted Malcolm and Macready into the stern-sheets, and within seven
minutes of the first order for the sea-boat to be manned, the two
New Zealanders were standing upon the quarter-deck of H.M.S.
_Gosport_.