The Guard-ship
"You don't look particularly happy over the news, old man," remarked
one of the officers on the pier-head. "P'raps, like old Mouldy here,
you think that you'll be out of a job very soon. Cheer up, the war's
not over yet."
Derek made no reply. As a matter of fact he was thinking more about
the loss of the sea-plane than the news that Germany had thrown up
the sponge. The two, taken in conjunction, might make things rather
unpleasant for him, since it was evident that the navy, army, and air
force must be drastically reduced after the cessation of hostilities
--and Derek Daventry had not had enough of life in the R.A.F. He
wanted to remain.
Just then someone slapped him vigorously on the back. Turning, he
found himself face to face with his old flying-chum, John Kaye.
"What in the name of goodness brings you down here?" asked Derek.
"Joined the Marine Branch at Sableridge yesterday," replied Kaye. "Of
course you took jolly good care to be out of the way when I wanted a
pal to take me by the hand and show me the ropes. So when your two
packets were sighted coming over the bar I came down to the pier to
give you my candid opinion of your perfidious desertion. Had a good
time?"
"Just so so," answered Derek.
"Then we're in for a lively evening, old thing," chipped in another
officer. "We've packed up for the rest of the day. There's a football
match on this afternoon, and to-night we all go to the theatre and
let 'em know what an armistice means. So cut and shift, you
salt-encrusted ancient mariner."
But there was work to do before Derek could be at liberty. The spare
gear had to be taken out of the boats; the boats themselves had to be
moored to their respective buoys; the crews had to be marched off,
and their officer had to satisfy himself that they were able to
obtain a belated dinner. Then there was his report to be made out and
submitted to the C.O.
Greatly to his surprise and satisfaction the report was favourably
received. In view of the circumstances, it was conceded that the
officer in charge of the boats had extricated himself with skill and
determination. The loss of the sea-plane was considered to be
unavoidable, and, as a telegram had been received from the
coast-guards at Thorbury Head saying that she had drifted ashore
practically uninjured, the work of salvage had to be undertaken at
the first favourable opportunity.
Armistice night was, to quote the general consensus of opinion, a
topping rag. Earlier in the evening all the men who could be spared
were taken into the town by "liberty-boats", otherwise three large
motor-lorries. Shortly afterwards the officers followed, every
available motor-vehicle on the station being pressed into service.
Derek and Kaye, together with seven other kindred spirits, crowded
into and upon a car normally constructed to hold five, including the
driver, two officers riding on the footboard, while another perched
himself upon the bonnet.
Fifty yards behind came another similarly-laden car, followed by a
third, and possibly it was solely tolerance on the part of the local
police that every officer of the depot was not summoned to appear
before the Bench for exceeding the speed limit.
Upon approaching the limits of the town the speedy cortège reduced
its pace considerably. Through crowds of wildly-excited people the
cars threaded their way. No one yet knew the terms of the Armistice.
They were perfectly convinced in their own minds that the war was
virtually over and that the Allies were top dog. It was an occasion
for jollification, and the opportunity was seized.
"Some crowd, eh, what?" remarked Kaye.
"Rather," agreed Derek. "But what strikes me most is the display of
street lamps. After years of almost total darkness at night one can
hardly recognize the town in its blaze of light. Hallo! here we are."
The cars came to a standstill outside the theatre. Into the first two
rows of the stalls trooped the Royal Air Force contingent, determined
to have, at all costs, a topping rag. It was a dull play, but the
audience amply atoned for its shortcomings. The members of the
orchestra were invited to partake of bitter lemons, to the
discomfiture of the wind-instrumentalists; the principal actors were
presented with huge bouquets of cabbages and carrots; the manager was
bombarded with requests for a speech, and was unmercifully ragged
when he responded to the vociferous invitation. The _pièce de
résistance_ was the appearance upon the stage of His Worship the
Mayor, who did his level best to deliver a patriotic harangue, at the
conclusion of which he was solemnly presented with a titanic replica
of a gorgeous jewel (tinselled cardboard) purporting to be the O.B.E.
Then, at the conclusion of the impromptu performance, the R.A.F.
contingent filed out into the crowded street, to make their way to an
hotel to enjoy a sumptuous supper in the unwonted setting of a
brilliantly-lighted room with uncurtained windows. It was merely one
way of bidding defiance to D.O.R.A., but it was symbolical of the
beginning of a new regime.
During the ensuing week there was very little serious work done at
the depot. It was a period of rejoicing, to which was added the
disquieting consideration that sooner or later demobilization would
bring its disturbing influence to bear upon efficiency. Followed a
series of congratulatory calls between the officers of the various
naval and military establishments in the district.
One of these was a visit to the Coastal Airship establishment at
Downbury. Why the motor-cars on the return journey took a wrong
turning and did not arrive at Sableridge till two o'clock in the
morning was never satisfactorily explained, but upon returning the
Adjutant discovered that he had left behind his favourite stick,
fashioned from the blade of an air-propeller, with a top turned from
the fuse-cap of a Boche shell that, fortunately for the present
owner, had failed to explode.
Enquiries on the telephone next morning elicited the information that
the stick was left in the mess at Downbury, and would be sent during
the day.
Just before eleven two large coastal airships were seen making over
Sableridge. Manoeuvred with a skill acquired by long practice, the
huge gasbags began to circle over the depot, one of their crew
actually attempting to remove the Colonel's flag from the masthead of
the flagstaff outside the officers' quarters. By means of semaphore a
lively exchange of compliments passed between the airmen up aloft and
the airmen on the ground, while the former continued to show their
stunt turns in a manner that caused the onlookers to anticipate a
collision with the chimney-pots. Then, describing a curve over the
harbour, one of the airships dropped an object to which was attached
a bunch of streamers. With a splash the thing struck the water and
floated vertically. It was the missing stick. Promptly a motor-boat
pushed off from the pier and retrieved the returned property, then,
with a final exchange of compliments, the two Blimps flew back to
their sheds.
Next morning the signal officer's face looked grave. A letter,
purporting to be an official document, had been handed to him. It was
signed "Senior Naval Officer, Fisherton", and requested an
explanation why a White Ensign, the jealously-guarded emblem of the
pukka Royal Navy, was flown from the gaff of the flagstaff of a Royal
Air Force establishment.
The whole thing was a hoax on the part of Dixon, the Lieutenant,
R.N.V.R., commanding the guard-ship at Sableridge, and the R.A.F.
signal officer "bit it badly". It was not until a reply had been
drafted and submitted to the Commanding Officer of the depot that
Dixon let the cat out of the bag. It was the first round of a
friendly contest between the R.N. and the R.A.F., and the former was
"one up".
When the men fell in parade that next morning the White Ensign was
not flying. In its place dangled a large earthenware jug, a silent
tribute on the part of the Sableridge signalling officer to the
guard-ship officer's capacity for stowing away mild ale. It was as
well that it was armistice week and the C.O. was in a tolerant mood,
for the incident passed off without rebuke. R.N. and R.A.F. were now
"honours even".
Next day the guard-ship was to be "paid off". After four years she
was to be released from her moorings and towed back to Fisherton, and
the departure of a time-honoured veteran could not take place without
a farewell demonstration on the part of the Royal Air Force at
Sableridge.
At two o'clock in the morning a small but desperate band of
adventurers turned out of their camp-beds. There were Derek Daventry,
clad in trench-coat, pyjamas, sea-boots, and muffler; Dennis, the
Adjutant, muffled in a sweater, two greatcoats, and a pair of
flying-boots; Wells, the signalling officer, and Kaye. The latter
carried a small bundle of rag liberally smeared with vaseline.
It was a pitch-dark night. The stars were obscured by heavy,
low-lying clouds. A keen easterly wind moaned through the fortress
and hummed through the rigging of the guard-ship.
Softly the desperadoes made their way to the pier, three of them
sheltering under the lee of the signal-house, while the fourth groped
for the painter and stern-post of a small dinghy.
"Any signs of 'em?" asked Dennis.
"Not a movement," whispered Wells. "The watch on deck is evidently
having a caulk. Got the dinghy ready yet, Kaye?"
"Can't find the rotten ropes," complained Kaye. "Ugh! Isn't it
horribly cold? Why did I leave my little back room----? Hallo!
Someone's tied a granny in the rope, and my fingers are frozen
stiff."
"Not so much row there," cautioned Dennis. "If you can't unlash the
thing, cut it. Now then, you fellows, don't capsize the boat and
throw us into the ditch. How's the tide?"
"On the flood," replied Derek. "Oars muffled? Kaye, you rotter,
you've put more vaseline on the thwarts than you have upon the rag
round the rowlocks. I thought I was on the skating-rink for the
moment. All ready? Give way."
Very silently the deeply-laden little craft pushed off. Partly
paddled, partly carried by the tide, the boat neared the dark-grey
bows of the guard-ship.
"Who's got the quart pot?" whispered Dennis. "You, Daventry--no? How
about you, Kaye? No luck? I say, you blighters, don't all say you've
left the beastly thing on the pier."
Cautious groping resulted in the discovery that the earthenware
trophy was not in the boat. In the darkness the conspirators had left
it perched precariously on the bottom step of the landing-stage.
"Together!" hissed the Adjutant. "Don't splash so, Kaye. You sent a
shower down my back, and the water's horribly cold. 'Sides, you're
making an awful row. Old man Dixon will be roused out of his
beauty-sleep, and our little stunt will be a proper wash-out."
It was a hard tussle to regain the pier, for the spring tide was
swirling viciously. The signalling officer managed to grab the jug
and deposit it in the stern-sheets, and once more the raiders
approached the silent and unsuspecting guard-ship.
Deftly Derek bent the boat's painter to a deadeye in the vessel's
chains, and allowed the dinghy to drop astern until she lay alongside
the Jacob's ladder that served as an accommodation-ladder. One by one
the four swarmed up and gained the guard-ship's deck. Here they
waited, listening intently. The wind, moaning dismally through the
rigging, failed to outvoice the nasal efforts of the three men
forming the guard-ship's crew. The Lieutenant, berthed aft, was also
soundly asleep.
Wells nudged Derek in the ribs, and handed him the earthenware
pitcher. Very cautiously the two commenced to mount the creaking
ladder to the bridge, while Dennis and Kaye remained by the gangway,
ready to cover their comrades' retreat should their presence be
detected.
It did not take the signalling officer long to uncleat the masthead
halyards. These he bent to the handle of the jug, at the same time
inserting a piece of brass wire through the rope so that it would
render through the sheaves in the masthead truck, but refuse to
return when once a strain was put upon it.
Up into the darkness rose the fragile trophy. More than once it
struck dully against the top-mast, fortunately without breaking. Lost
to view, it announced its arrival at the top-mast head in no
unmistakable manner. A sharp jerk, and the metal pin was released.
The jug was almost literally nailed to the mast; until a hand was
sent aloft--and it was hardly likely that any of the ancient mariners
composing the guard-ship's crew could essay the feat--there it must
perforce remain.
The work of re-embarkation was performed with more haste than
discretion, the Adjutant stepping confidently into fifteen feet of
water instead of into the boat. With praiseworthy devotion to the
great cause, he refrained from audible comment in spite of the fact
that Wells grabbed him by the hair. Unfortunately Dennis had adopted
the latest fashion of allowing his hair to grow fairly long and to
brush it back from his forehead. It made an excellent hand-grip for
the signalling officer's massive and horny paw, but nevertheless the
operation was a painful one.
At the risk of capsizing the dinghy, the Adjutant was hauled in, and
the return trip was accomplished without further incident.
Exultant but shivering, the four officers made their way back to
their quarters, and turned in to sleep the sleep of men who had
achieved their ends.
Directly Derek awoke he sprang out of his folding bed and hastened to
the window. In the pale-grey dawn he could see the outlines of the
guard-ship silhouetted against the light. Aloft the trophy hung in
uninterrupted serenity.
"Tug's alongside the guard-ship," announced the Adjutant at
breakfast. "Let's go down to the pier and give her a good send-off."
Practically every R.A.F. officer on the station hurried out of the
building and crowded on the pier-head. Crowds of men lined the shore,
while dozens of civilian spectators appeared to watch the departure
of one of the links of the Great War--the humble coaster that for the
last four years had, under the authority of the White Ensign,
prevented all unauthorized craft from leaving or entering Fisherton
Harbour.
The Royal Air Force had made up its mind to give its departing
confrère a fitting farewell. From the signal yard-arm on the pier
fluttered a triple hoist of flags: "Good-bye; good luck". Klaxon
horns, sirens, and the long-neglected trumpet blared forth in noisy
lament; petrol-tins, on which to beat a rousing tattoo, were pressed
into service; while the steam-tug, straining at the hawser, responded
with a succession of strident whoops.
Slowly the guard-ship swung round and shaped a course for Fisherton,
following obediently in the wake of the tug. On her bridge stood the
burly figure of genial Lieutenant Dixon as he waved an acknowledgment
of the exuberant welcome. Fifty feet above his head dangled the
earthenware jug.
"He doesn't know it's there," remarked Derek.
"Then he jolly well will do so," rejoined the signalling officer,
and, grasping a pair of hand-flags, he steadied himself on the
pier-head rail.
"Guard-ship, what's that at your fore top-mast head?" he signalled.
The R.N.V.R. Lieutenant glanced aloft. For a moment he looked
puzzled, then he realized that honours were no longer even. The
R.A.F. were "one up".
A broad smile suffused his features. Snatching up a pair of
hand-flags he semaphored:
"Thanks; but why didn't you fill it before you returned it?"