the ‘Sub.’
Up she came, the depth-needle hurrying back to zero. She was in surface
trim now, and, carefully opening the hatch, Raymond, Boyd, and the
helmsman, clad in oilskins and sea-boots, clambered on deck, the latter
carrying the Sperry repeater.
‘One,’ shouted the captain down the hatch, as a great spout of white
water showed forward. Then later, ‘two ... three. Upper deck control.
Open the vents!’
The tanks were out and the air was churning up the sea outside.
Hoskins shut off the blows, and at Seagrave’s orders all vents and
Kingstons were closed.
‘Engines!’ bellowed Raymond, ‘two fifty revs.’
With a fizz and a bang they were off, the smell of the petrol on
starting pervading the bridge in spite of the strong wind.
It was a dirty night. Even a fair-sized vessel would have felt it, and
to ‘123’ the sea was dangerously heavy.
The sun had just set, the sky was overcast, and rain was beginning to
fall. The north-westerly wind was still increasing in force and raising
a sea that caught them just before the beam.
Night fell, bringing pitch darkness and torrents of rain in its wake.
The sea was quite steep now, but the wind was steady. Great rollers
came out of the darkness, hit the submarine’s starboard side, broke
over her in a deluge of spray, and vanished again to leeward.
The superstructure was hardly ever out of water, and now and again
a sea swept right over the conning-tower, drenching to the skin the
unfortunate men who were hanging on for dear life.
About nine o’clock Raymond eased her down to two hundred revs.
‘She’s not doing much,’ he said, turning to Boyd; ‘not more than about
four knots. Can’t afford to smash things up. We’d better get right
home, and in this sea we shan’t be there before daylight. Tell Seagrave
to call me at four o’clock. He’s got a charge on of five hundred in
series, and they’re getting the air up as well. He’ll see to that in
the middle watch, though.’
He went below, letting the conning-tower hatch fall behind him, but not
quite closing it (for the greedy engines needed air to run on), and
prepared to lie down on his bunk.
Down below a sorry spectacle met his eyes. The beam sea was causing
the boat to roll very heavily, and it was impossible to stand upright
without holding on to something. Not the roll of a liner this, nor yet
of a destroyer, but more the motion of a quickly-moving pendulum. Right
over to port she would roll and then, without an instant’s pause, as
far over the other way, bringing down a cloud of books and all sorts of
gear that had not been properly lashed up.
Whenever a big sea washed clean over her, showers of spray would come
down through the small opening in the conning-tower hatch, and once the
chest of drawers took charge and slid over on a man who was attempting
to sleep on deck.
Seagrave and Raymond were nearly rolled out of their bunks, and the
racing of the screws caused an added vibration. Men in wet oilskins
relieved from the wheel came below dripping, and everything began to
get thoroughly damp and soggy.
At midnight Seagrave went up to the bridge. On first clambering out
of the hatch it seemed as if he were entering a very inferno. Boyd,
drenched to the skin, turned over the watch to him and hurried below,
leaving him alone with the helmsman.
It was still pitch dark and blowing very hard. The rain was pouring
down, and she was shipping it green fore and aft, but by-and-by he
became more accustomed to it and began to wait for the big ones and
dodge them instinctively; however, it was rather a nerve-wracking
night, and he hailed with great joy the first glimpse of dawn and with
it a moderation of wind and sea.
When Raymond came up at four o’clock, the weather was decreasing; the
wind was still fresh, but the sea had gone down, and the boat was
running more easily.
Seagrave wasted no time in getting below. He inspected the batteries,
took the densities, and was between the blankets in less than ten
minutes.
As the light gained strength, Raymond could just make out the faint
outline of home, and the sea moderated as they approached the shelter
of the bay to the northward.
He increased speed, and by seven-thirty they were in smooth water and
only ten miles off the harbour.
Boyd clambered up to the bridge to assist Raymond to take her in, while
Seagrave buzzed round the motors and saw all in readiness for entering
port.
Nearly all the crew who were not on watch were up on deck; crowded on
the conning-tower, round the gun, anywhere where they could keep a
safe footing against the now gentle roll and get a breath of fresh air
after the trials and stuffy atmosphere of the night below.
Up the hatch came the voice of the cheerful stoker impressing on the
signalman that ‘he didn’t want to lose him, but he thought he ought
to go,’ as the latter struggled up with his arms full of flags, and,
bending on a couple, hoisted them to the yard-arm of the telescopic
mast.
‘Entrance signal up, sir,’ he reported.
‘All right,’ said Raymond. ‘What’s that on the starboard bow?’
The signalman clapped his glass to his eye and sucked his teeth.
‘British submarine, sir, approaching the harbour from the northward. I
think it’s “159,” sir. She seems to be keeping level.’
Raymond jerked the bell.
‘Three fifty revs!’ he shouted down the hatch. ‘We’ll show her what we
can do now. We’ll make Snatcher look old-fashioned.’
The boat jumped ahead, but although the two submarines were on courses
converging to the harbour mouth, she showed no signs of gaining on the
wily ‘159.’
Raymond frowned. Then he rang the bell again and said,--
‘Ask the chief E.R.A. to speak to me, please.’
Presently Hoskins appeared, accompanied by his eternal dirty face,
cheerful grin, and lump of oily waste.
‘Sir?’ he queried.
Raymond didn’t speak. He merely pointed to the offending craft on the
starboard beam.
A light of comprehension dawned on the artificer’s face. His grin
broadened and he fled below.
Twenty minutes later ‘123’ shot through the harbour-gate a good quarter
of a mile ahead of her adversary, and as she passed the piers the
captain gave the order ‘harbour stations.’
The coxswain took the helm. It was his prerogative, and entering or
leaving port none but he was entrusted with the wheel.
The remainder of the crew who could be spared from below fell in
and stood at ease on the superstructure, both forward and abaft the
conning-tower, under the orders of Seagrave.
As they passed the first of the big ships lying at anchor, the ‘Sub’
gave a sharp order, and the men came to attention facing towards her,
and as the quarter deck drew abeam, Raymond raised his hand in a salute
which was answered from the battleship by the officer on the watch.
‘’Bout turn!’ ordered Seagrave, as they passed the next ship, and once
more salutes were exchanged.
By now ‘123’ was well up the bay, and the _Parentis_ was visible as the
boat threaded her way through the crowded harbour.
‘Finished harbour stations,’ ordered Raymond. ‘Stand by to go
alongside.’
Then down the conning-tower hatch,--
‘Motors, group down! Three hundred!’
‘Both engine clutches out, sir,’ came the reply. ‘Three ’undred, sir.’
The exhaust wavered and died away; there was a pause, and then the
faint churning aft indicated that the screws were being turned by the
electric motors, which were taking three hundred amperes.
With perfect judgment Raymond manœuvred her astern of the _Parentis_,
and ‘123’ slid alongside with barely a foot’s clearance.
As she slid by,--
‘Stop both!’ rapped the captain. ‘Group up! Astern both!’
The water bore aft as the propellers checked her way. Heaving lines
were thrown fore and aft, ‘123’ thought about it, shuddered, and
stopped dead alongside.
‘Stop both. Finished with motors. Make fast fore and aft,’ called
Raymond. ‘Is the “Sperry” stopped, Boyd?’
‘Yes, sir. I stopped her when we got on the bearing,’ replied the
navigator.
‘Right-oh. Come on the pair of you. Time for a gin and bitters.’
‘Clear up below, coxswain,’ cried Seagrave, as the gang plank went out;
and five minutes later the three officers of H.M. Submarine ‘123’ were
in the _Parentis’s_ ward room clamouring at the top of their voices for
gin, bitters, and baths.
THE MOTHERS
I
We knew them in their infancy,
We knew them as our sons;
We loved them for their own dear sakes,
We bade them man the guns.
We knew they’d do their honest best,
We prayed that they might live;
And proud were we the day we gave
The utmost we could give.
II
We saw them go, our cherished ones,
We bade them fond farewell;
And we, the mothers of our sons,
Were left alone ... in hell.
O Lord, we humbly pray Thee,
Have mercy on the slain;
But most of all, have mercy on,
The women who remain!
EMPTY SADDLES
‘Chicago high,’ announced the Fleet Surgeon of the _Parentis_, throwing
the dice on the ward room table.
‘One hundred, two hundred, three hundred and sixty-four,’ said the
Staff Paymaster as he gathered them up. ‘Not so dusty, P.M.O., but
watch Little Willie.’
‘Sixty, sixty-four, sixty-six, seventy-two,’ cried the surgeon
triumphantly. ‘The worst cut of modern times. Waiter, Mr Ponsonby will
provide cocktails.’
‘That shakes your wine bill, Pay,’ remarked the Engineer Commander.
‘Six cocktails makes you sit up and take notice. _And_ don’t forget
that you’ve got to shake with old “Snatcher” when “159” gets back. He’s
absolutely undefeated, a regular snatcher of drinks at other people’s
expense.’
‘You’re probably speaking from bitter experience, Chief,’ asked Blake,
one of the submarine captains.
‘I am,’ replied the Engineer, shaking his head. ‘Last time I took him
on I got six at “Chicago low,” and he lurked me with a possible. I used
to think I was a pretty fair hand at cutting, but I admit that where
“159” is concerned I’ve met my Waterloo.’
‘By Jove, yes. She ought to be in by now, unless she’s had bad weather,
which isn’t likely. You can usually trust “Snatcher” to sit on the
bottom if it comes on to blow. But he ought to be back shortly. I
always work it so as to get back in time for a bath before dinner when
I’m on the patrol he’s got now.’
‘Look here, P.M.O.,’ protested a voice from the other end of the ward
room. ‘These people are ordering more gin. In the interests of public
health and the Service I appeal to you, as a medical man, to tell them
not to, to put your foot down; in a word, to stop it. They’re going to
start the gramaphone and it’s only half-past six, and I can’t stand it.’
‘It looks to me like an advanced case of alcoholic neuritis,’ replied
the surgeon gravely, ‘for which the only remedy is a prolonged course
of ragtime on the gramaphone at eight a.m. It had better work itself
out, that is, unless they include me in their disgusting gin debauch,
in which case I don’t mind prescribing something a little less drastic.’
It was the hour before dinner, when every one congregates for a drink
before going below to clean and change, and the _Parentis’s_ ward room
was crowded. It was large as ward rooms go, and furnished in the usual
Service style, with maroon leather chairs and sofas, a long table
covered with the green Service cloth, and cases of Encyclopædias and
works on Naval history. The walls were adorned with photographs of the
various submarines which had been attached to the ship at different
times, and formed quite an interesting feature in themselves.
At present the _Parentis_ was depot ship to a large number of boats,
and as each boat had three officers, the Marine servants were usually
kept pretty busy at cocktail time.
Youngish men mostly, the submarine captains would meet at this hour of
the day and discuss ‘shop’ to an extent that maddened the more junior
members of the mess. Little scraps of conversation they were, but
not without meaning to the uninitiated, and based on the experience
of men who sometimes carried their lives in their hands. Periscopes,
stern-dives, and the latest class of boat were discussed, coloured with
the charm of personal experiences and scraps of idle chaff.
‘The ‘Subs’ of the boats were either junior Lieutenants or senior
Sub-Lieutenants. Earnest, talkative youths, very much alive to the
responsibilities of their positions, and the burdens attaching thereto,
who ordered their drinks with the abandon of those who have done a hard
day’s work and ‘dare do all that may become a man.’
The remainder of the mess was composed of the depot officers:
paymaster, surgeon, engineer, and watch-keepers, and the navigators
of the submarines. These latter were all Lieutenants of the Royal
Naval Reserve, whose ages ranged anywhere from twenty-three to forty;
men from the great steamship lines of the Mercantile Marine, who had
answered the country’s call at the outbreak of the war.
There was a general buzz of conversation over the room as friends
discussed the events of the day and compared notes, before undertaking
the more serious business of dinner.
‘I say, you fellows,’ exclaimed Seagrave to a group of brother ‘Subs,’
‘“159” went to sea without any gin. “Bunty” tried to pull the strings
twice, but the mess-man wasn’t having any.’
‘I know,’ chimed in another. ‘I went down the boat before she shoved
off to try and get a drink out of him, but when I got there the
cupboard was bare.’
‘By the way, aren’t they back yet?’
‘Don’t think so. You’d hear ’em quick enough if they were. They do seem
to be a bit late. Probably strafed a Hun.’
‘If they’d done that they’d be back at the double. They hadn’t anything
to celebrate it with.’
‘Can’t help their troubles, and if we don’t want to be late for dinner
we’d better get moving,’ and, snatching his cap from a pile on the
table, the speaker linked arms with a couple of cronies and waltzed out
of the room.
‘My opinion,’ said the Torpedo Lieutenant to a circle of boat captains
gathered round the fireplace, ‘is that you fellows take life too
seriously. Look at me. I work all day. I’m a fine figure of a man....
Now, then, no rude remarks, please. And I come in here in the evening
as merry as a cricket.’
‘That’s all right,’ replied one of his listeners. ‘It all depends on
one’s definition of the word work. You ought to look it up; you’d find
it instructive.’
‘Your pardon, sir. My labours are long and strenuous. I went down three
boats to-day and gave my valuable advice on Mark XX torpedoes. But
alas! this is a thankless world. I received recompense in only two. The
other boat had lost her corkscrew.’
‘Say, Boyd,’ cried a voice at the other end of the room, ‘how did the
gyro behave last trip?’
‘A 1. I’m becoming a perfect knut at it. He only rang once. I’ve come
to the conclusion that when you know the elements of its construction,
it’s as easy as falling off a log. Yes, a cocktail, please, waiter. I
had some trouble at first though, but that was my own fault. In fact I
composed a song entitled “When the Sperry bell is ringing.”’
‘Mine’s jolly fine now, never makes a murmur.’
‘When you’re quite finished your harangue on work, a subject on
which you are grossly ignorant, Torps, perhaps you will pay a little
attention to me.’ The voice was Raymond’s.
‘Now, tell me why. Why am I to listen to your fatuous and narrow-minded
remarks on a topic that is not only entirely distasteful to me at all
times, but altogether beyond the pale at this hour of the evening.’
‘My fatuous remark, as you are pleased to call it, was about to take
the form of asking you to have a gin with me, but seeing that----’
‘Kamerad, kamerad. I apologise--for once you talk as a Christian
should. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend him your ears. He’s going to
do the decent. I can feel it coming on.’
‘At one time, in my palmy days, when I was your age,’ said Raymond,
raising his glass, ‘I could go a whole pint of beer without swallowing.
But now---- It’s a bit ’ard. Cheer-oh, everybody.’
In the train of the drinks came the Marine servants bearing the
table-cloths and silver, and a general move was made for the door.
‘This,’ said the Torpedo Lieutenant as he foraged for his cap, ‘is what
I joined the Navy for. To dine and meditate with friends.... Damn it,
Pay, you’ve pinched my bonnet.’
* * * * *
Private Boon, R.M.L.I., knocked at his master’s door.
‘Mr Blake, sir. ’Alf-past seven. Your bath’s ready, sir.’
The sleeper awoke, yawned, and threw one pyjama-clad leg over the bunk
board.
‘All right. I’ll be out in a minute,’ he grunted.
The private withdrew and Blake turned over and looked at his watch.
‘Um,’ he groaned. ‘Better hurry up, I suppose, or some one will pinch
my bath.’
As he slipped on a dressing-gown, a photograph on the table caught his
eye.
‘Wonder if “159” has got back yet,’ he mused, as he made his way down
the corridor. ‘Ought to be in by now,’ and he disappeared into the
bathroom, where sounds of splashing and ‘Miserere’ in a deep bass
shortly issued.
On his return he found the private of Marines busy in his room.
‘Is “159” back yet, Boon?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, sir. I’ve got Mr Shelldon’s room ready for ’im. But they
ain’t back yet, sir.’
A vague uneasiness crept over Blake. What was ‘Snatcher’ doing that he
was twelve hours overdue?
‘Oh, rubbish,’ he told himself as he began dressing, ‘I expect he’s
been delayed some way or other. Engines broken down or something.’
‘Yes, boiled eggs in ten minutes’ time, Boon, not too hard, please.’
Breakfast in the _Parentis_ was not what would be called a cheery meal.
Conversation was not encouraged, and hilarity of any sort met with
frowning disapproval. The sober-minded read newspapers, while their
less literary brethren kept their mouths shut except for the necessity
of admitting food.
When the more senior members of the mess had got to the first pipe
stage, the ‘Subs’ departed to muster their crews, and the navigators
drifted off to odd jobs. The captains of boats congregated round the
fireplace and discussed plans for the day, while the doctor censored
letters and the Staff Paymaster busied himself with the wine books.
Gradually the groups broke up and the Marines began tidying the room
for the morning.
In the early hours--at six o’clock to be exact--the ship’s company had
been fallen in by the officer of the watch, and under the eagle eye of
the First Lieutenant had scrubbed the decks and cleaned the brass till
the _Parentis_ shone like a new pin. Alongside her, four on one side
and five on the other, were her charges, the submarines, at present in
a state of ordered chaos due to work of an extensive and all embracing
character.
At eight o’clock the crew, mustered in their boats by their respective
‘Subs,’ were told off for the labours of the day, and by five minutes
past were all hard at it. The E.R.A.’s were busying themselves in their
engine-rooms and the electrical ratings on various jobs that came
within their sphere, while the remainder were cleaning all brass and
steelwork and were kept at it by the vigilant ‘Subs.’
Navigators were correcting charts and cleaning gyro compasses, and now
and again the captains would dodge below to superintend, or two or
three of them would hang round a periscope or a torpedo-tube arguing a
knotty point or demonstrating the correctness of their theories.
It was a fine warm day, and the _Parentis_ looked like a hen in a
gilded coop with her chicks clustered about her. All round her lay the
Fleet; picket boats danced across from ship to ship, the sound of a
Marine band drifted over from a neighbouring battleship, and the buzz
of work rose on the air.
The officer of the watch, resplendent with a sword-belt and telescope,
walked the quarter-deck, keeping a general eye on everything that took
place. The quartermaster, corporal of the watch, and messengers hung
round the gangway, and even the distant bridge was a scene of activity,
where a gray-haired yeoman of signals harried his signal staff round
the gaudy flag lockers.
Forward an R.N.R. Lieutenant was drilling the boys’ division at
physical exercise, and down below the submarine attack ‘teacher’ was
being kept busily employed.
A picket-boat approached the gangway. The midshipman who was steering
held up four fingers and laid them on his coat-sleeve, and as she swung
alongside the gangway party formed up. A tall, erect figure stepped out
of the boat, the bos’n’s mate shrilled on his pipe, the quarter-deck
came to attention, and the officer of the watch saluted. A Post Captain
had come aboard.
The boys’ division fell out and gave place to a squad under torpedo
instruction; the Marine detachment paraded, and then the bugle sounded
‘Stand easy.’
Men came up out of the boats to snatch a smoke during the ten minutes’
respite; or laid aside their brass rags and departed to the mess decks.
Ten minutes blessed relief before ‘Carry on’ sounded by the diminutive
Marine bugler sent them back to their tasks.
Later, the Captain of the depot held his court for defaulters. Then
‘cooks’ was sounded, the rum was served out, and at eight bells, noon,
came the welcome dinner call.
Up over the side came the crews, followed in a more dignified manner by
the officers, who dived below to their rooms, to wash and don a clean
monkey-jacket for lunch.
Blake came up out of his boat, fully expecting to see ‘159’ in her
accustomed berth, and it was with quite a shock that he realised that
she had not yet returned. It was with a presentiment of something
seriously amiss that he presently took his seat at the luncheon-table.
The same feeling seemed to express itself in the others’ faces, but
this might be only his imagination. No one spoke of ‘159,’ in fact they
all seemed to leave her severely alone. But there was a general feeling
in the air that all was not well, and it seemed evident, though no word
was actually spoken, that everybody fully realised the fact that she
was now sixteen hours late, and a boat that is sixteen hours overdue in
war-time ... well, things _may_ have happened.
Once he made a casual remark to his neighbour on the matter. His answer
was merely a nod between mouthfuls, so he dropped the subject and said
no more about it.
But for all that, he was becoming convinced that something had taken
place ... out there. ‘Snatcher’ Shelldon and he had been friends
since their _Britannia_ days. His surroundings looked unfamiliar and
a sickening anxiety came over him. ‘How could the others go on eating
when perhaps?...’
He pulled himself together and made a pretence at a meal. ‘Mustn’t give
way to morbid imaginings,’ he told himself.
The meal over he sat apart and tried to collect his thoughts and
enumerate various minor mishaps that might have delayed the boat.
No, he could think of none that would account for it under the
circumstances.
At one-thirty work was resumed, and he plunged into a fever of exertion
to take his thoughts off the subject. He made up his mind he wouldn’t
come on deck before four o’clock, when work ceased for the day, and
then either the sight of ‘159’ would dispel all doubts or else he had
no more to hope for.
But at four o’clock, when the hands were piped to tea, there was still
no news, and shortly after ‘evening quarters’ two destroyers slipped
quietly out of the harbour. Those who noticed their departure thought
nothing of it at the time, and only wondered why the Captain’s temper
seemed the worse for wear.
By dinner time it was evident that every one in the mess was awake to
the fact that a boat was missing, and in fine weather, too. Nobody
mentioned her; they all kept studiously off the subject, but the
conversation was subdued and everybody’s nerves seemed slightly on
edge. Many of them had friends among the absent officers, and no one
liked to voice the general opinion, although it would have been a
relief if some one had.
It was not a cheery meal, and they were all glad when it was over.
Thus it was left to Private Boon to rush in where angels feared to
tread.
‘That’s three of ’em less to lay for,’ he said.
* * * * *
Two days later the captain of the depot sat alone in his after-cabin.
He was bending over the writing-table, surrounded by envelopes, paper,
and accessories, but his thoughts did not seem to flow. He sat staring
in front of him with unseeing eyes and chewing the end of his pen.