A Mouldy Station
Ten minutes later the boats were in the turmoil of the troubled water
caused by the swirl of the tide over Thorbury Ledge. Had it been
light enough for anyone standing on the headland to watch the two
diminutive craft struggling through the broken water, he would
doubtless have expected to see the frail cockle-shells founder under
his eyes.
It was hazardous work, certainly; but by this time Derek had the
utmost confidence in the seaworthiness of his two craft. Often hidden
from each other by the intervening crests, the boats behaved
wondrously; but the youthful officer in charge was relieved to know
that wind and tide were in the same direction. Had it been otherwise
things might have been different. From the headland it was now plain
sailing, for in the gathering light the slender tower of the
lighthouse at Fort Churst could be discerned, standing out clearly
against the dark background of the well-wooded hills. In forty
minutes both boats were passing through the narrow channel. Signals
were exchanged with the batteries, and the welcome order to proceed
was received.
It was now comparatively smooth water. The crews, recovering from
their malady, were able to sit up and take nourishment in the shape
of bread and bully beef. More, they began to take a lively interest
in their surroundings, although the aspect of that land-locked
stretch of water in war-time and in November was far different from
what it had been previous to August, 1914, when the sea was dotted
with the sails of countless yachts.
"Wonder if it will ever be the same again?" thought Derek. "One
thing's fairly certain: we won't see the German Emperor afloat here,
unless as a prisoner of war on a British battleship."
Over a vast observation minefield the boats glided serenely. Fifty
feet beneath their keels were cylinders of powerful explosive that at
the touch of an electrically-connected key ashore would blow a
hostile ship to atoms. Farther on there were mechanical
contact-mines, moored fathoms down so that a vessel of the deepest
draught could pass unscathed but should a U-boat attempt to nose her
way in by creeping just above the bottom of the sea, her fate would
be swift and terrible.
"Keep a sharp look-out for the gateway," ordered Derek, as he placed
a fresh man at the helm. "It's getting a bit misty, and we don't want
to run full tilt against the boom."
The boats were now nearing the innermost line of anti-submarine
defences of the western approach to the greatest naval harbour in the
world. Right across the water-way was a triple line of massive wire
hawsers, supported by barrels at frequent intervals. So much was
visible; what was not visible was a wondrous complication of nets,
explosive charges, and other effective anti-submarine defences.
Britain's sure and safe shield was taking no undue risks with Fritz
and all his evil works. To enable authorized vessels to pass, a
gateway had been constructed. Between two large craft moored a
cable's length apart there was a movable section of the barrier, and
towards this the two motor-boats steered.
"Motor-boats ahoy!" hailed an officer from one of the guard-ships.
"You are to proceed to Bull Roads and await further orders from the
S.N.O."
Against this mandate there was no appeal. The word of the Senior
Naval Officer was more than law. Doubtless it meant irritating and
apparently needless delay, but, whatever the object of the order, it
had to be put into effect without delay.
"Aye, aye, sir!" shouted Derek in reply. He knew perfectly well that
non-compliance would result in a six-pounder shell fired across his
bows, and almost immediately a salvo from the guardship's
quick-firers.
"Port helm!" continued Daventry, addressing the coxswain. Round swung
his boat; the one astern instantly followed suit, and a course was
shaped for Bull Roads, an open anchorage barely two miles distant.
Arriving here the boats had orders to anchor, and for four long hours
they rolled heavily in the tide-way. Naval patrol-boats of all sorts
and sizes passed continually, but none appeared to pay the slightest
attention to the two strangers within their gates. It was not until
well into the afternoon that a patrol-boat eased down within a few
feet of Derek's craft.
"You can proceed," announced the officer.
"Why have we been detained?" asked Derek, wondering at the bald
announcement and the lack of explanation.
The sub-lieutenant R.N.R. shrugged his shoulders.
"Ask me another, old sport," he replied. "If you want to carry on do
so at once, before the Old Man puts another stopper on you. _Bon
voyage!_"
The motors were started up; foot by foot the chain cables were
brought on board until the anchors, their palms smothered in blue,
slimy clay, were hauled up and secured. Then, in the gathering
twilight, the boats headed for their destination. By this time the
mist had increased considerably. Visibility was a matter of a couple
of hundred yards. It was bitterly cold, the air being raw and damp.
"Verily," thought Derek, "motor-boating in November differs
considerably from yachting in August."
At length the huge air-sheds of the Wagshot Station loomed up through
the mist. Ordering half-speed, Derek brought his boat alongside the
pier, and signalled to the second craft to lie up alongside him.
"Where are you from?" enquired a great-coated individual from the
pier-head--the Officer of the Watch.
"From. Sableridge," replied Derek. "We've come to take away a
sea-plane."
"First I've heard about it," rejoined the O.W. "You'd better see the
Adjutant. You're stopping here the night?"
"'Fraid there's no option," replied Daventry.
"Right-o! Moor your craft out there. I'll send a duty-boat out to
take off the crews."
"Out there" was a partially-protected anchorage, about a hundred
yards from the pier. The boats pushed off and made for their
appointed stations for the night, Derek taking particular care that
each boat was properly moored with both anchor and kedge.
This done the crews were taken off. Visions of a hot meal first for
his men and then for himself (for it is an unwritten law that
officers must first provide for the comfort of their crews before
"packing up" themselves) were rudely shattered when the Officer of
the Watch appeared.
"I've seen the Adjutant," he announced. "You'll have to take those
boats across to Bumble Creek. They'll be in the way of our
flying-boats if they stay there."
Derek felt inclined to use forcible language; to enquire pointedly
why these instructions could not have been given him before the
elaborate process of mooring the boats had commenced. To be ordered
at the end of a strenuous day's work to undertake another hour's toil
was a tough proposition for the cold and hungry men to tackle.
"I'll send the duty-boat to pilot you," continued the O.W. "She'll
bring you back to the station." Thankful for small mercies Derek
turned his men to. It required fifteen minutes of hard work to unmoor
and get under way. Fortunately the duty-boat was standing by, for the
run across to Bumble Creek meant crossing an arm of the sea that was
constantly alive with traffic.
Once more the two boats were secured for the night, this time
alongside a hulk. It was pitch dark when Derek and his men returned
to Wagshot Air Station.
Having seen his men installed in their temporary quarters and
provided with a hot meal, Derek made his way to the officers' mess.
Instead of a bright, cheerful building like that at Sableridge, he
was directed to a large hut, which was divided into two large rooms
and a few smaller ones.
"There's the ward-room, sir," replied a girl in the uniform of the
W.R.N.S. "The steward will arrange for dinner and quarters."
The ward-room was a wood-lined but devoid of almost every comfort.
Floor and walls were bare, except, in the case of the walls, for a
few technical prints of sea-planes and flying-boats. In one corner
was a table piled high with leather coats, helmets, gloves, and other
garments affected by airmen. A fire burned dully in a large grate,
round which were seated, shoulder to shoulder, half a dozen young
"quirks".
They greeted Daventry with supercilious glances; then, having
surveyed him in stony silence, they resumed their conversation in
loud tones, apparently with the idea of impressing the new arrival
with their importance and familiarity with life in town.
"Cubs--utter outsiders," thought Derek. "And what a bear-garden this
mess is."
Chilled both mentally and physically, Daventry went out, preferring
to pace the bleak parade-ground until dinner was served to remaining
in such inhospitable company.
Dinner over, payment was promptly demanded--another difference
compared with the way they ran things at Sableridge, where any
strange officer who happens to blow into the mess is given
hospitality and never charged for his entertainment.
"I've secured a room for you in the new building, sir," announced the
steward. "There'll be a car ready to take you up in twenty minutes."
Derek spent the time in revisiting his men. They were none too happy,
although making the best of things. There were abundant evidences
that Wagshot was what is known as a "Mouldy Station", but worse was
to follow.
Up rattled the car; Derek took his seat, and off the ramshackle
vehicle went. It may have been owing to the state of the road, but
the jolting of the car was worse than any he had experienced in
France. Over narrow-gauge railway lines, sometimes grinding on
shingle, at others sinking in sand and mud, the car held on its way.
The road was narrow, with the sea on either side, for Wagshot Air
Station is built on a natural peninsula of which the isthmus is long,
narrow, and rugged. The shore was littered with the skeletons of
burned sea-planes and flying-boats, the gaunt framework of which
stood out clearly against the misty sky.
Presently the car gained the mainland, swung round several sharp
corners, and pulled up outside the quarters known as the New
Buildings.
An orderly conducted Derek to his temporary quarters, which were well
termed "New", for they were still in the builders' hands. After
traversing several hundred yards of corridors that looked like those
of a prison, with dozens of doors exactly alike, his guide stopped,
produced a key, and threw open the portal of the "cabin".
It was a small room lighted by a feeble electric lamp. Walls and
floor were of concrete that literally ran with moisture. There was
neither carpet nor rug on the floor, while the furniture was of a
most Spartan character, comprising two beds--one already occupied by
a soundly-sleeping officer--a trestle table, and a chair.
"Hope you'll be comfortable, sir," remarked the batman ironically. He
had seen strange officers "blow in" many times before, but he could
not resist the temptation to indulge in mild _plaisanterie._ "Lights
are turned off at ten-thirty," he added, with infinite relish; "and
if you shut the door on the outside you can't get in unless you come
to me for a key, sir."
Left to the sole companionship of the soundly-snoring officer, Derek
prepared to turn in. Investigations showed that the bed had a wire
mattress, a straw pillow, and two army blankets. The pillow showed
signs of disintegration; the blankets felt damp and smelt musty.
Daventry felt inclined to use strong language. On active service on
the Western Front he would have borne the discomfort with equanimity;
in a permanent home-station there was no excuse for the wretched
accommodation.
Kicking off his sea-boots and tunic Derek turned in practically "all
standing", to pass a fitful night, and to awake to find a white mist
enveloping everything.
He had breakfast with about twenty young officers, the meal
consisting of a tablespoonful of luke-warm porridge, two square
inches of American bacon, bread, margarine, and tea. Before he left
the building the messman presented a bill for half a crown for this
sorry repast.
Upon arriving at the pier-head Derek found that his men had fared no
better, and in spite of the thick fog they brightened up considerably
when their officer announced his intention of getting away from
Wagshot Air Station "even if it rained ink".
The first step was to induce the Officer of the Watch to send the
duty-boat over to Bumble Creek to fetch the motor-boats. This was
successfully accomplished, notwithstanding the fact that twice the
duty-boat ran aground, fortunately on soft mud and on a rising tide.
By ten o'clock Derek's two craft were alongside the pier, and the
sea-plane that had to be towed back to Sableridge was prepared for
her voyage.
"The fog's lifting, I fancy," remarked the Officer of the Watch.
"You'll be able to get away to-day after all."
"I mean to," rejoined Derek grimly.