The Blimp and the Skate
During the initial stages of the life of the R.A.F. Marine Training
Depot there was one thing missing. No doubt there were others, but
this one, in the eyes of the C.O. and officers, was of great moment.
The men would fall in on parade smartly and rapidly; the colours
would be hoisted at nine in the morning with éclat; there were
sentries posted to pay proper compliments to officers; and a superb
gun-metal bell tolled out the hours and half-hours in correct ship's
time.
But there was no bugler; nor was there a bugle even if a bugler had
been forthcoming. And a bugler capable of blowing a loud-sounding
bugle was a desideratum. He would become the coping-stone of the
building of efficiency.
The Major did his level best to obtain some Boy Scout buglers from
Fisherton, but, false to their precepts, the youngsters were not
prepared to use their breath for two shillings a day on behalf of the
R.A.F. when they could earn thrice that amount elsewhere.
It looked as if Sableridge Depot would fail to attain that degree of
pomp and circumstance when fate, in the guise of the Drafting Officer
at Blandborough Depot, played into its hands. Amongst a batch of new
arrivals was a gem, a priceless jewel--a man who could blow a bugle.
He was a short, tubby individual with watery-blue eyes and a flat,
rubicund nose. Quiet and unassuming, his arrival was hailed with
acclamation. Had he asked for a silver trumpet and a pair of wings of
a slightly different type to those worn by airmen no doubt the
delighted officers would have done their level best to accede to his
request. As it was they subscribed and purchased a trumpet, the
sounds of which floated across the parade-ground in a manner
calculated to raise the martial spirit of all ranks well above
boiling-point.
Morning, noon, and night the clarion-like notes made the welkin ring.
From Réveillé to Retreat and Last Post, and whenever circumstances
demanded, there was the depot bugler with his highly-polished and
tasselled trumpet.
For nearly a week this idyllic state of affairs continued, until the
wellnigh exhausted bugler applied for leave in order to proceed to
Belfast to bury a near relative.
He was granted seven days, and took his departure forthwith. A gloom
descended over Sableridge. The polished bugle was silent, and reposed
on a green baize-covered table in the orderly-room like a fairy
princess awaiting the arrival of the enchanter to restore her to
life.
The week passed, but no bugler returned. At the end of ten days he
was posted as a deserter. Enquiries at Belfast showed that he had not
been seen there, nor were any of his relations in need of his
services as a mourner.
Then came the staggering blow. The meek and mild musical treasure was
under lock and key, arrested by the civil police for at least half a
dozen burglaries. The last heard of him was that he had received a
sentence calculated to carry him well beyond the "duration", and the
shattered idol was not replaced. Sableridge carried on without a
bugler.
A day or so after the disappearance of the bugler Derek had to take
his crew out into the bay for further instruction. It was mostly
compass work and fixing positions by cross-bearings, and since speed
was against successful work, the boat was slowed down and a trawl
shot. This was killing two birds with one stone: there was plenty of
time for compass-bearings, while there was a chance of supplying the
mess with fish.
The first cast was a failure owing to the net getting foul of a
submerged rock, but on the second attempt it became evident by the
weight of the net that something was enmeshed.
"We've a good haul this time, I think," exclaimed Derek.
"Let's hope so, sir," announced the coxswain. "We can't be too sure,
though. I remember my brother telling me about when he was off the
Dardanelles--up Mudros way to be exact--he an' some pals did a lot of
trawling. They thought they had a jolly good catch, but when they
hauled in the net they found two dead mules and two old boots."
Slowly the weed-encumbered meshes were hauled inboard until the
bulging pocket came in sight, packed with white and grey writhing
fish--skate, flounder, and two large dog-fish.
"Those flat fish are all right," continued the coxswain. "I don't
know about those skate. Rummy-lookin' creatures, ain't they, sir?"
The deep bass hum of an aerial propeller attracted the crew's
attention from the catch. Five hundred feet overhead was a coastal
airship which had drifted down silently with her engines shut off,
and, having just restarted her motors, was manoeuvring into the
wind's eye.
Perhaps it was as well that R.A.F. 1164 B carried on her fore-deck a
square of canvas painted with the distinctive red, white, and blue
circles. This device was a guarantee of her identity as a friend.
Without it a small, grey-painted craft might easily be mistaken for a
U-boat, with disastrous results.
Then the engines were stopped again. Over the side of the nacelle a
leather-helmeted and begoggled head appeared. The pilot, raising a
megaphone to his lips, hailed:
"R.A.F. launch ahoy! Any fish to spare us?"
"Right-o!" shouted Derek in reply, but his voice was apparently
inaudible to the airship's crew, for the hail was repeated.
"Hold up some fish and let them see," ordered Derek.
One of the men displayed the largest skate, a lozenge-shaped fish
measuring more than a yard from fin to fin.
"That's done them!" exclaimed Derek.
But he was mistaken. Like a cormorant swooping down from a beacon,
the huge and seemingly ungainly airship tilted her nose and dropped
almost vertically until her nacelle was within fifty or sixty feet of
the water. Then, with her propeller revolving at a reduced rate, she
forged ahead on a similar course to that of the motor-boat.
"By Jove! She's paying out her aerial. That's a smart move,"
announced Derek. "Easy ahead! Follow her up, coxswain."
Rapidly the thin but strong wire was unwound until the end dangled
within reach of the crew of the boat. In a trice one of the men
grasped the wire and bent it round the tail of the skate.
"Haul in!" shouted Derek.
"Thanks, old man!" yelled the Blimp's pilot in reply. "When you've a
chance, look us up at Netherton. We'll give you a joy-ride."
"Sure thing!" replied Derek. "I'm on it!"
The airship rose slowly, her crew still winding in the skate that was
revolving rapidly at the end of the aerial; then, having gained
possession of the novel catch, the Blimp bore swiftly southwards to
resume her patrol, while No. 1164 B steadied on her helm and shaped a
course back to the Bar Buoy.
Happening to glance aft, Derek was somewhat surprised to find a small
black kitten in the after-cockpit.
"What's that animal doing on board?" he demanded.
"Our mascot, sir," replied one of the men. "The Adjutant's dog chased
it on board just before we left the pier."
"No. 17 coming out, sir," reported the coxswain, pointing to a
motor-craft that was approaching at high speed. Interest in the
kitten was transferred to the oncoming boat.
"She's signalling, sir," continued the coxswain, as a man holding a
couple of hand-flags mounted the plunging fore-deck.
"Will you take Sergeant-Instructor Jenkins on board for the purpose
of adjusting compass?" read the coxswain.
Both boats slowed down on approaching, and rounded gunwale to
gunwale. The Sergeant, a short, burly man, who looked what he was--a
seaman ex-R.N., in spite of his khaki uniform--saluted, and stepped
into No. 1164 B.
"Ready to carry on, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, carry on, Sergeant," replied Derek.
The N.C.O. bent down to unship the hood of the compass. As he did so
the kitten scrambled upon his back and on to his shoulder. With a
yell the Sergeant dropped the metal hood fairly on the top of the
compass. The glass cracked, the compass tilted on its gimbals, and
the liquid poured from the bowl.
"That's gone west, sir!" exclaimed the Sergeant apologetically.
"Sorry, sir; it was that blessed cat. Can't stick cats at any price.
Completely up-end me, they do."
It was evident that nothing further could be done in the matter of
adjusting that compass. The N.C.O. was profuse in his regrets, but
regrets were unable to repair the damaged instrument. Accordingly the
coxswain was ordered to take the boat back into the harbour.
"Yes, sir," resumed the Sergeant. "Cats are my 'beatty nowhere', [1]
as the Frenchies say. Can't stick 'em at any price," he reiterated.
"Got disrated once over a party of cats."
"Eh?" exclaimed Derek incredulously.
"Fact, sir; it was in '97, when I was yeoman of signals on the
_Spondulux_--third-class cruiser she was. We were lying off the west
coast, with awnings rigged day and night, and all that sort o' thing,
and perishing hot it was, too. Well, we had a cat on board, which was
bad enough, but, to make matters worse, the cat had kittens. One
night I was keeping the middle watch when I heard a most awful
racket. You'll understand, sir, we had the poop awning set, and the
dew had stretched it as tight as a drum. There was that cat and her
kittens careering up and down the awning and playing all sorts of
pranks. The skipper rings his bell, so down I goes to his cabin.
'What's that?' he asked, holding up his hand, as if I couldn't hear
plain enough. 'Cats, sir,' says I. 'Stop it,' says he. Those being my
orders I had to carry 'em out. So out I turned, creeping along the
ridge-rope of that blessed awning trying to collar the furry brood,
or, rather, to drive 'em for'ard, 'cause touching 'em always sends
cold shivers down my back. I hadn't gone a couple of yards before the
awning parted, and down I went through the hole smack upon the poop.
The Bloke (Commander) comes tumbling up out of his cabin, swears I've
been skylarking, and takes away my badges."
Against the strong ebb tide R.A.F. 1164 B rubbed alongside the pier.
The men were ascending the steps when the Officer of the Watch
appeared.
"What's that kitten doing on board?" he enquired; then, without
waiting for an explanation, he continued: "Sergeant Jenkins, hand
that animal out."
The harassed instructor obeyed, although there were strong
indications of repugnance as he handled the inoffensive little
kitten.
The Officer of the Watch caught Derek's eye. The officers winked at
each other, for each knew Sergeant Jenkins's antipathy.
"That's the stuff to give 'em," murmured the O.W.
[1] Bête noire.