An Independent Command
Training under war-time conditions must necessarily be as brief as
possible, consistent with a certain degree of efficiency; and the
period of instruction at Sableridge was no exception. As quickly as
raw material could be fashioned into fairly competent motor-boatmen,
drafts were sent away and recruits brought in to fill their places,
in order that the R.A.F. marine might relieve the Royal Navy of a
certain branch of its work--namely, attending upon sea-planes and
coastal airships.
As far as an officer under instruction was concerned, the test was a
simple, and at the same time a drastic one. He might be sent at a few
hours' notice to bring a motor-boat round from, say, Great Yarmouth
to Sableridge, a distance of between two and three hundred miles. He
had to use his discretion--to remain in port should the weather look
threatening, or the atmospheric conditions point to fog or mist.
Nevertheless, it was no light task to navigate a half-decked
motor-craft in the depth of winter, when short days and dark nights
added to the difficulties of making a passage.
It was of no use for an officer to attempt to live on his reputation.
He had to be prepared to execute orders rationally and efficiently.
There was one second-lieutenant who boasted that in pre-war days he
had navigated his own yacht from Blackpool to the Isle of Man.
Shortly after he had reported for duty at the depot an officer was
required to bring a motor-launch round from Harwich.
"Why not send Ruby, sir?" suggested the Major, as he and the Colonel
were debating as to who should be deputed for the task. "He has taken
a boat across to the Isle of Man."
So Second-Lieutenant Ruby received his sailing orders, and for the
next few days he walked about like a man in a trance. The magnitude
of his task appalled him. Finally he went to the Major and declared
that he was not equal to navigating the boat. From that moment he
ceased to be a motor-boat officer, and was given a tedious but safe
shore-billet.
It was towards the end of the first week in November that Derek
Daventry received his orders for his first trip as an independent
command. His instructions were to take two 35-footers and proceed to
Wagshot Air Station, where he was to receive a sea-plane and tow her
back to Sableridge. The double distance amounted to nearly seventy
miles, of which half was open sea work. The sea-plane was an obsolete
machine, the engines of which had been removed, and was required
merely for the purpose of practising how to take this kind of
aircraft in tow.
All the previous day Derek was exceptionally busy. On him rested the
responsibility of the voyage. He had to see that the boats' equipment
was in order, that the tanks were filled with petrol, that there was
plenty of lubricating oil on board, that the men had drawn their
rations and blankets, and that charts and navigating instruments were
on board.
Before sunset the two boats were moored alongside the pier. The start
was timed for six in the morning. Hardly ever had Derek studied the
barometer so frequently and so carefully. Twice during the night he
rose from his camp-bed, donned trench-coat and sea-boots, and walked
down to the pier, in order to satisfy himself that the boats were
riding properly in the tide-way, and that their securing-rope had
sufficient slack to allow for the rise and fall of the tide.
At 5 a.m., just as he was enjoying a sound slumber, he was awakened
by his batman.
"What sort of morning is it?" he asked.
"Cold, sir, and fine," replied the man. "Bright moonlight, and hardly
any wind."
Quickly Derek tumbled out of bed and began to dress. Experience had
taught him that to be warmly clad in a boat is as necessary as when
flying. Over his khaki breeches he wore a pair of thick flannel
trousers. On his feet he had a pair of socks, a pair of woollen
stockings, and a voluminous pair of india-rubber sea-boots. Walking
even a short distance in loosely-fitting boots inevitably resulted in
the total destruction of the heels of the socks, but on the other
hand it would be a fairly simple matter to kick off the boots in the
event of Derek finding himself "in the ditch". Sea-boots that fit
tightly, and cannot be taken off quickly in an emergency, are nothing
short of death-traps.
He discarded his tunic, wearing in its place two thick sweaters. The
next items were his oilskin trousers and coat, while the only outward
and visible sign that he held His Majesty's Commission in the R.A.F.
was his cap, with the distinctive badge of the crown, eagle, and
wings.
By the time he had completed dressing breakfast was served. He ate
his meal in solitary state in the electrically-lighted mess-room.
There was no question of the excellence of the food at Sableridge,
even in war-time. Hot Scotch porridge, with treacle, eggs and bacon,
toast, real butter, marmalade and jam--a square meal to fortify the
young officer's inner man for the coming ordeal of a sea-voyage.
Feeling rather like an arctic explorer, for across his shoulders he
now carried a well-filled haversack and a pair of binoculars, Derek
descended the steps of the officers' mess and walked down to the
pier.
The batman was right. It was a cold morning. Every bush was festooned
with hoar-frost that glistened in the moonlight. The planks of the
pier were slippery with ice, while there was a biting coldness in the
air that gave a zest to life, even at six o'clock on a November
morning.
The crews of the two boats were already at the pier-head, black
oilskinned figures, looking like ghostly familiars in the grey light.
Both craft had their engines running, the fumes from the exhausts
rising strongly in the cold air. From the stern of each boat flew the
White Ensign, while as a distinguishing pennant each displayed the
"International F" from the short iron mast abaft the fore-deck.
Then came a grim reminder that there were war risks even on a coastal
voyage. Before embarking every man had to give his name to the
signalman on the pier-head, in order that their next-of-kin should be
promptly informed if the boats met with disaster and the crews failed
to return.
"All ready?"
"All ready, sir!"
"Cast off!"
With a slight jerk, as the clutch was slipped in, the 35-footer
gathered way, her White Ensign temporarily enveloped in the bluish
haze of the exhaust. A slight touch on the wheel steadied her on her
helm, and soon the white signal-house on Sableridge Pier was a misty
wraith in the darkness.
Half a cable's length astern followed the second boat, her
sergeant-coxwain, unused to the science of navigation, although he
knew how to handle a small craft, keeping station with the utmost
fidelity. At that distance she was a mere indistinct grey wedge, her
position chiefly indicated by the "bone in her teeth", otherwise the
creamy froth leaping from her knife-like bows and thrown wide on
either side by her pronounced flare.
Ahead the Bar Buoy winked its friendly greeting. No other light was
visible in that quarter, and steering for that particular light was
"not good enough", when on either hand of the narrow channel were
dangerous sandbanks, on the fringes of which the surf was pounding
heavily.
It was on this account that Derek kept looking astern. Over the
bobbing canopy and beyond the fluttering ensign were two white
lights, one several feet higher than the other, and actually four
hundred yards apart. These were the only lights ashore, and were
permitted when the exhibition of any other illuminant would result in
a fine not exceeding £500. In short, they were the harbour leading
lights, and as long as a mariner kept them in line, either when
entering or leaving the fairway, he could carry on in absolute
confidence, scorning the hidden dangers on either hand.
The Bar Buoy at last! Giving the boat starboard helm Derek swung her
round until her head pointed due east. Already his cap and oilskins
were running with moisture, and the salt spray was stinging his face
and making his eyes smart despite the scanty protection afforded by
the "dodger".
"Hardly so comfortable as my old 'bus," thought Daventry; "but it's
jolly exhilarating. Now then, old lady, let's see how you take that
one!"
"That one" referred to a crested "comber" that was bearing down
towards the swiftly-moving boat. A slight touch on the helm and the
fine bows swung round to take the advancing mass of water line on.
Administrating a vicious slap to the wave the motor-boat lifted to
the crested billow. Spray came hissing aft in solid sheets, pattering
on the canvas canopy with a sound similar to that of peas being
shaken in a wooden box. She was through, but immediately beyond was
another wall of water.
Right down until her fore-deck ventilators were hidden plunged the
boat. For a moment Derek thought she would never recover herself. The
engine faltered. In a second the alert engineer was at the throttle
and the "spark".
"Water on the mag, sir," he shouted. "I'll have to ease her."
"And about time," thought Derek. "Wonder if it's like this all the
blinking way?"
But soon the boat entered smoother water. The breakers were on the
weather side of the bar. Beyond was easier going.
Winking the moisture from his eyes, Derek glanced astern. The other
boat was making fairly good weather of it, although she looked to be
nothing more than a double wing of white foam.
"Good enough," declared Derek, and, calling to one of the deck-hands,
he gave the wheel over into his care, admonishing him to report
immediately Thorbury Head became visible.
"Now for a smoke!" he exclaimed, and, pulling out his favourite pipe,
he carefully loaded up.
Curiosity prompted him to see what the rest of the crew were doing.
Grasping the life-lines on the canopy he made his way aft, his sole
foothold being the narrow, slippery water-ways.
Under the awning were the rest of the crew, lying helpless on top of
a nondescript heap of blankets and oilskins, together with the
disintegrated rations--fresh beef, "bully", and loaves. In the throes
of sea-sickness the hapless "George Robey's Marines" hardly cared
whether they were on or in the sea.
Clearly nothing could be done to help the luckless victims of _mal de
mer_, so Derek made his way back to the steering-well, and, standing
behind the coxswain, surveyed the outlook.
There was very little to be seen, only a limited expanse of
white-crested water, bounded by darkness that was even now struggling
for mastery with the first faint tints of a grey dawn. Land,
somewhere within three miles, was invisible. All that the helmsman
had to depend upon was a small and untested compass fixed in a rather
inaccessible and unhandy spot, and within three feet of the mass of
metal comprising the six-cylinder motor.
There was also the danger of bumping on a drifting mine. Derek
realized the peril. Fortunately perhaps for them, the men were in
ignorance of the fact that mines had been reported within thirty
miles of Fisherton Harbour, and, with an onshore wind and the
indraught of the tide, thirty miles was a very small distance for one
of these instruments of destruction to drift in forty-eight hours.
Added to this there was the possibility of being fired upon by the
batteries at Churst and Fort Edward, guarding the narrow channel
leading to the tidal estuary on the banks of which Wagshot Air
Station stands. Although the forts had been warned that the two
R.A.F. motor-boats were passing, there was always a chance that a
highly-strung battery-commander might mistake the two grey hulls for
the conning-towers of a pair of U-boats and give the order to open
fire. Such a thing had been done before, with disastrous results.
Suddenly Derek's reveries were broken by the coxswain shouting:
"There it is, sir; a couple of points on the port bow!"
Unable to comprehend the nature of the intelligence, Derek peered
ahead in the direction indicated, quite expecting to see a horned
mine a few yards from the bows. Then he heaved a sigh of relief, for
looming faintly through the mist was the unmistakable outline of
Thorbury Head.