was writing, to anxious women who were waiting and hoping beyond hope,
two wives and a lonely mother, to tell them that they might hope no
longer. This kindly old gentleman was compiling the missives which were
to bring anguish and sorrow to the hearts of those who waited.
They were more than junior officers to him. One was the son of an old
comrade and the others had served long under his command. To them he
had been, no doubt, rather a terrifying person with four gold stripes
on his sleeve, but to him, they were his boys; he had been through it
all himself, he was training them, and he was proud of them. Above all
came the Service, and he had trained them for the good of the Service.
A kindly word now and again and a sharp reprimand when needed had been
the secret of his successes, and beneath his gruff exterior he had a
warm feeling towards them. Now he had lost them and his work was to do
over again.
His hand was about to bring grief unspeakable to their dearest and....
He finished his letters; the few kindly, sympathetic words that were to
be almost death-blows on the morrow, and as he raised his head from the
table and glanced into the mirror he saw the face of a tired old man.
* * * * *
Blake picked up the photograph and held it close to the electric light.
As he studied the honest face it depicted, his memory flew back to the
_Britannia_ days when Shelldon and he had started their careers. They
had been the same term and had gone through all their early trials and
tribulations together. Later, ‘Snatcher’ had spent one or two holidays
with him, and years afterwards the friendship had been cemented by his
engagement to Blake’s sister.
He remembered the wedding, and how as best man he had put in one of the
hardest day’s work in his life. He smiled as he recalled his friend’s
delight when first he had been promoted to captain of a boat, and he
put down the photograph and sighed.
‘It seemed so cold-blooded. To go out and just disappear. No trace,
nothing. Blown to pieces on a mine probably. He could picture the
scene. The men quietly reading and talking and then suddenly a blinding
crash and nothing more. If some one could only have seen them. But the
two destroyers that went in search had only found a patch of oil. Just
went out and disappeared. And Molly....’
A knock sounded at the door.
‘Come in,’ he called, hastily stowing the photograph away.
Raymond entered with an air of studied indifference.
‘Hope you’re not busy, old man,’ he said with forced gaiety.
‘No, no. I’m not doing anything. Come in.’
‘Good. I wanted to know if you would lend me your T.I. to-morrow.
Mine’s gone sick and I’ve got a job of work on hand I want finished.’
‘Yes, of course, you can. Take him and bless you. I’ll send a chit to
my “Sub” about it.’
Raymond hovered with the door-knob in his hand, opened his mouth to
speak, thought better of it, and left quietly.
Out in the flat, he faced his friend’s cabin, and raising his fists in
the air, called Heaven to witness.
‘Oh, Bloody War!’ he exclaimed.
* * * * *
‘As a general rule, mind you, I don’t ’old with officers, but ’e was a
gentleman.’
The speaker spat over the side to emphasise his point, and relapsed
into silence.
The lower deck sat round in small knots and coteries and smoked for the
most part without unnecessary speech. The pipes were going, the evening
was dark and still, and the lower deck was in a contemplative mood.
‘Yes,’ continued the Seaman Gunner, ‘’im and ’is mates was gentlemen.’
‘Pal o’ mine, Mick ’Ardy, was in ’er,’ quoth the S.T. ‘Fust trip in a
submarine, too. Out fer trainin’. ’Ard I calls it.’
‘Strewth,’ said a voice out of the darkness, ‘we was on ’er patrol last
trip. Bit o’ luck we didn’t come a kisser.’
‘It was that,’ put in the signalman. ‘We’re doo out to-morrow.’
Once more silence. Three bells struck and a bugle sounded from a
distant battleship.
‘I’d like to know wot ’appened,’ said the voice out of the darkness.
‘Struck a mine likely. When I come into submarines, my old woman she
sez to me----’
‘Stow it,’ growled the Seaman Gunner. ‘Only the other day, ’e sez,
“’Bout time,” ’e sez, “you went up for Leading Seaman. I want to see
you gettin’ a ’ead. I’ll ’elp you through,” ’e sez.’
‘Wot I think,’ said the Stoker, ‘is, strike me pink. If I don’t
pulverise the first ruddy ’Un I meets, Gawd strike me pink.’
‘Pipe down,’ shrilled the bos’n’s mate.
* * * * *
Private Boon was busy. He stood in his shirt-sleeves in the midst of a
chaos of his own making.
Outside the cabin was a sea-chest of generous proportions, and in the
bunk he had placed a tin uniform case, a helmet case, and divers bags
and portmanteaux.
He was a careful packer, but his methods were unique. He liked to see
things round him, and after the manner of an inquisitive terrier, he
began to strip the drawers of their contents and strew garments high
and low. The table, the chairs, and the bunk was soon piled high, and
when the last drawer gaped void and empty he surveyed his handiwork
with the eye of a connoisseur.
But he showed himself a past master of the art when he began packing
the uniforms in the tin case. Every article was carefully shaken,
brushed and folded, and reverently placed in its appointed spot. This
portion of his labours completed, he dealt with the sea-chest, and by
that time the collection round the cabin had materially decreased.
Having finished the clothes at last, he turned to the more personal
objects, scrutinising each one before finally disposing of it.
‘Ash tray, silver too,’ he soliloquised. ‘Give ’im by a girl likely.
’Air brushes, monogram an’ all. Nice bit o’ work. Books, letters,
fountain pen. I think that’s the lot.’
His eye caught a small silver frame standing on the table forlorn and
forgotten.
‘’Ullo, photograph.’ He held it to the light. ‘Nice-looking young
woman, _and_ a kid. Might be ’is Missis. P’raps it is, poor gell!’
He locked the cases and looked round the cabin.
‘Nothin’ forgot. No. I think that’s all this time.’
With much laboured breathing he wrote the owner’s name and address,
and, carefully tacking the card on the lid of the sea-chest, stood back
to admire the result.
‘Effects of the Late Lieutenant Shelldon, R.N.----’
Through the open port the sound of an order floated, and the churning
of twin screws. It was ‘147’ going to sea.
A Sub-Lieutenant and a Midshipman stood on the quarter-deck of a
neighbouring battleship.
* * * * *
Said the ‘Sub,’ aged twenty, to the ‘Snotty,’ aged nineteen, ‘I bearded
the Commander in his den to-day, and flopped in my application.’
‘Did you? What did he say?’ inquired the Midshipman.
‘Look out, he’s over there. Said it was all right and he’d see the
Captain about it to-morrow.’
‘You lucky beggar. I wish I could get in, but they won’t take us
“Snotties.”’
‘Perhaps you’ll get in when you’re my age,’ returned the bearder of
Commanders patronisingly.
‘By gum, yes. I hope so. I’ve always wanted to be in a submarine, ever
since the Marmora business.’ He gazed across at the _Parentis_. ‘Look,
there’s one of them going to sea. Can you see which she is?’
The ‘Sub’ shaded his eyes.
‘“147,” I think. Billings is in her. He’s my term, and he got in
without much trouble. I ought to get it in two months or so with any
luck.’
‘That’ll mean drinks all round then, that’s one comfort,’ said the
Midshipman enviously.
‘Oh, I shan’t mind standing drinks once I’ve got it. Man, you’re
practically your own boss there. Think of it, no school or bally
drills. You’re not treated as a child like you are here.’
‘I don’t know about that. That picket-boat job I had yesterday wasn’t
much of a joke.’
A signalman came through the screen door and approached the Commander,
who was conferring with the Boatswain on the other side of the
quarter-deck.
‘Signal, sir,’ he reported.
The Commander looked round impatiently.
‘Well, what is it? Read it out.’
‘Flag, General, sir. From two to three p.m. Colours will be ’alf mast
owing to the loss of Submarine “159.”’
‘All right. Show it to the Officer of the Watch. Now, about that new
manilla, Mr Bostock....’
The signalman saluted and carried on.
THE BOGIE-MAN
I
‘Oh, mother dear, was that a whale?’ the baby porpoise said.
‘Now, hush, my Little Beautiful, it’s time you were in bed.’
‘Or, mother, could it be a shark that gave me such a fright,
Or was it just a phantasy that passes with the night?’
II
‘Now, hush, my Little Beautiful. If you don’t go to sleep,
I’ll have to call the Bogie-Man, the Bogie of the Deep.
Be good, or he will swallow you; his teeth are sharp and keen,
He’s here, he’s there, he’s everywhere. That grisly Submarine!’
‘EXERCISE ATTACKS’
It has already been pointed out that breakfast in the _Parentis_ was a
meal of Spartan severity. Moreover, the breakfasters were divided into
three distinct classes. During the remainder of the day the members of
these different orders descended to the level of the common herd and
were as other men. But when the fateful hour of eight a.m. came round
again, they picked up the broken threads of their lives, and for one
brief hour held chillily aloof from those of other and (according to
the point of view) less distinguished bodies.
The most elevated of these orders consisted of those few habitually
early risers, who, having shaved and bathed at the grisly hour of 7.15,
loomed heavily into the ward room with severe countenances and majestic
mien, each a procession in himself. In sepulchral tones they ordered
eggs, and taking up a strategic position with their backs to the fire,
produced books from their pockets and read in heavy silence, with one
eye cocked doorwards whence breakfast would appear.
On the arrival of food they took their seats in awful majesty, nodded
to one another across the table, and attacked their eggs without
further preamble. The actions of the noble-minded of this earth are
often mysteries to its more humble inhabitants. But _Conscia mens
recti_ may do these things and prosper.
To arrest public attention, man must be eccentric, but even greatness
has its penalties, and of these the discomfort attendant on
eccentricity is by no means one of the least.
Consequently the second, and by far the most numerous, school of
breakfasters, comprised the ‘plebs’ or rabble, who drifted in at any
time between eight-twenty and a quarter to nine, having risen and
dressed with decorum, and at the hour when a normal Christian should.
Its adherents held a brighter view of life; occasionally they spoke,
and rumour whispered that once in the dim ages, far back in the
twilight of history, a member of this low caste has even been known to
laugh!
The third and last clan, which was very popular with certain members
of the mess, rivalled in fame its more ascetic brethren who aspired
to be ‘healthy, wealthy, and wise.’ Its devotees, having remained in
bed until the last minute, fled in terror to the bathroom, visions of
pyjamas and flying towels, and presently burst wild-eyed into the mess,
still buttoning their monkey jackets about them. In panic-stricken
tones they ordered food and (if the table had not already been cleared)
fell upon the viands in the manner of drowning men to whom help had
come when hope had been foregone.
For the remainder of the forenoon the ward room would be filled with
the bitter complaints of the less fortunate of these late-comers.
Complaints to the effect that ‘they never could get any breakfast in
this wretched ship,’ and of the futility and feebleness of the calls
given them by their respective Marine servants.
A new member coming to the mess grasped the situation at his first
meal, and felt it a point of unwritten law and honour to continue
membership in whichever body chance had happened to place him. He
resented those who altered their morning habits and broke through the
magic circle, and showed his displeasure by word or look, according to
the traditions of the body to which he belonged.
Thus it was that Raymond, who was a member of the ‘plebs,’ having
risen unusually early, was met with severe and threatening looks as
he took his seat at the table. The fluttering in the dove-cotes was
barely stilled when, horror, another intruder arrived on the scene of
mastication. As if this were not sufficient outrage in itself, the
breakers of the peace seemed in good humour with the world and actually
dared to talk! With frigid looks the early risers hastily finished
their meal and retired with ruffled dignity.
One only remained whose curiosity had got the better of his wounded
feelings. For a while he listened to what the others were saying in
the hopes of obtaining a clue to the mystery without having to resort
to the self-abasement of asking questions, but as nothing was spoken
of that would help him in that direction he was forced to swallow his
pride. Presently he looked up from the book he was pretending to read
and grunted with disgust.
‘Up early,’ he began, nodding at Raymond.
‘Yes,’ replied that worthy brightly. ‘Practice attacks.’
The curious one sat up and took professional notice.
‘One of the world’s workers this morning, eh? Who’s giving you a run?’
‘Jenkins, here. His T.B.’s alongside now, so I asked him to come aboard
and have a drop of breakfast with me.’
‘Now I come to think of it, I heard Jinks’s falsetto when I was in
my bath. He made rather a mess of coming alongside, I thought, and I
suppose he was mentioning it to any one who cared to listen to him.’
‘Made a mess of it, be blowed!’ cried the irate Jenkins. ‘You try a
combination of tide, and a fool at the wheel at seven in the morning,
and then you’ll realise what I’ve had to put up with.’
‘I have, my lad, I have. My heart went out to you when I heard the
bump. There ought to be an addition made to the lists of “summary
punishments,” entitling outraged “Lieutenants-in-command” to seize all
helm offenders and cast them instantly into chains.’
‘Blame the Kaiser, he’s the cause of the trouble,’ returned the Torpedo
Boat captain sadly. ‘I’m well stocked with “hostility only” people,
who never smelt salt water before they sold their farms and came to
sea. You wouldn’t believe some of the weird stories I could tell you.
Did you ever hear about my gray paint?’
‘I heard some of the most extraordinary rumours. What actually
happened?’
‘Oh, it was chronic. Burton, my Number One, was nearly a raving lunatic
over it, and hasn’t been the same man since. It quite broke the poor
chap down. He’d been trying to mix the right shade for days, and
thought he really had hit on it at last. It was all mixed in a whopping
great tub ready for slapping on in the morning, and the whole bally lot
disappeared during the night.’
‘Great Scott! What the devil happened to it?’
‘Prepare for a shock and I’ll break it to you gently. It had been
dumped, jettisoned, thrown over the side, mark you, by an “’ostility
only” bloke wot thort it was dirty water, sir, please!’
‘My poor old Jinks. No wonder he wears a careworn look.’
‘All very well for you to laugh, Austin, but it’s these little things
that are the bane of one’s existence in the destroyer trade. Upsets of
this sort and submarines are about on a par with one another.’
‘We ought to be ready by now,’ said Raymond, rising and going over to
the scuttle. ‘Seagrave has been up since dewy dawn getting ready. Yes,’
he continued, looking over his shoulder, ‘he seems to be having a high
old time of it by himself, and by the looks of things we’re all ready
when you are.’
‘Right-oh. I shove off at eight-thirty, don’t I?’
‘I haven’t had a “dummy run” for ages,’ grumbled Austin. ‘The owner
thinks I’m so proficient I don’t need any more, I expect.’
‘Oh, no, my friend,’ laughed Raymond. ‘You’re not his blue-eyed boy by
a long chalk. It’s common knowledge that you made such a fiasco of your
last one that he doesn’t like to trust you again.’
‘Maybe, maybe,’ replied Austin amiably. (He was one of the best
submarine officers in the depot.) ‘Out of the mouths of babes and
sucklings.... What’s the stunt to-day, anyway?’
‘Just the usual. Jinks goes out at eight-thirty and buzzes about in a
ten mile area. I follow when I’ve digested my food, dive when he least
expects it, and attack him in his little sardine tin by short sharp
rushes. I shall then be crowned with laurel leaves, which, with my
accustomed modesty, I shall refuse to wear.’
‘That’s open to question. Last time Jinks gave me a run I couldn’t get
anywhere near him. How many “fish” are you going to fire?’
‘Probably four, I think. It depends whether it’s worth while. You see,
I’ve got that patent bow-cap, and as I have to flood all four tubes
together, I might as well get rid of the “fish.”’
‘That always seems to me to be a rummy arrangement. Personally I can’t
see much advantage in it. Do you find it any good?’
‘It’s handy in one way. If you miss with your first shot, your other
tubes are ready for another go.’
‘My dear good chap, you must not be such a Hun. You’ll have to
curb these desires for hate. Why should you want to rain “fish” on
unfortunate beggars in that way?’
‘Time’s up,’ said the Torpedo Boat captain, pushing his chair back.
‘I’ll get off now. What’s the betting I spot you?’
‘Cocktails when we get back,’ Raymond called after him.
‘I’ll take you,’ said Jenkins, putting his head in through the ward
room door. ‘I’ve got a wonderful eye for spotting periscopes.’
‘Mine is the “perisher” you will _not_ spot,’ replied Raymond with
dignity. ‘Not if you try ever so. Not if you try with both hands, you
won’t.’
‘The youth bores me,’ sighed Jenkins, and fled as the _Naval Annual_
banged up against the bulkhead.
He made his way down the flat, where the Marine sentry stood at stolid
attention, and glimpses could be had, through open doors, of those who
wrestled manfully with collars, and the air was rent with shrill cries
and splashings from the bathroom. Messengers and officers’ servants
were bustling about, and there was a general air of early morning
energy. At the end of the flat, he stepped up the companion and emerged
on the quarter-deck, where he gravely raised his hand to the salute.
‘Hallo, Jinks!’ cried a being, whose sword-belt and telescope
proclaimed him the Officer of the Watch; ‘I was surprised to find your
packet alongside when I took over at eight o’clock. What’s the game?’
‘I’m giving Raymond a run, and as I’m short of torpedo-lifting gear, I
got permission to come alongside and take some in before shoving out of
the harbour.’
‘I see. What time are you shoving off though, because “147” will be
back in half an hour’s time and she’ll want your berth alongside the
trot[9]?’
‘Don’t you worry. I’m off now. If you’d taken careful stock of me you’d
have seen the business-like look in my eye.’
‘That’ll be all right then. Good luck. When are you coming aboard to
dine with us, by the way?’
‘Any old time when I’m free will suit me.’
‘Well, come to-night, then. Dinner’s at seven-thirty. Cheer-oh.’
H.M. Torpedo Boat _Zero_ lay alongside the outer submarine, and Jenkins
had to clamber over the boats to reach his command. Four boats there
were, with just a thin plank thrown from one to the other as a means of
passage, and it required a little skilful manœuvring to get across in
safety. As he made his way over he caught glimpses of their internals
down the open hatches, heads bobbed round the conning-towers, and
snatches of song rose from the depths. Some of the crew of the outer
boat were exchanging insults with the _Zero’s_ men alongside, but at
sight of Jenkins they resumed their work with unaccustomed zeal.
The _Zero_ was old, very old, and quite unlovely, but according to her
captain, ‘she had her points.’ What these points were no one had ever
discovered, for all inquiries were met with the reply that ‘if they
couldn’t see them for themselves, he (the captain) was certainly not
going to the trouble of pointing them out for their (the inquirer’s)
instruction.’ She was small and uncomfortable and resembled an
overgrown motor-launch with a whale-back fo’c’sle. Also she was wet
in a sea way, and her internal arrangements were not of the most
convenient. Nevertheless she was a command, and in her captain’s eye
she had no blemish. Later, when he had four stripes on his sleeve,
and commanded a battleship, he would look back on her and study her
photographs with amusement and a little sorrow, but now, he was very
serious about her and very touchy about criticisms. No man dared
speak lightly of her since the awful day when ‘Snatcher’ Shelldon
had referred to her as ‘a lady of doubtful age.’ The result had been
terrific, and from that day nobody had openly questioned the _Zero_ or
her capabilities.
As he stepped aboard, Burton, the R.N.R. First Lieutenant, met him and
saluted.
‘All ready, sir,’ he reported.
‘Very good, we’ll shove off at once,’ said Jenkins. ‘“123” will follow
us in half an hour, so we haven’t got too much time. Stand by to let
the lines go.’
He picked his way along the deck, past the two torpedo tubes, and the
twelve-pounder guns, and up the ladder to the bridge. Here was no
‘big ship’ routine, for the _Zero_ only carried two officers and just
sufficient hands for the efficiency of the ship, and the helmsman and a
signal boy were in sole charge of the bridge. It was not an extensive
structure, and consisted of a wheelhouse and chart-room amidships,
fronted with glass and affording some protection against wind and rain,
and two wings thrown out to the vessel’s sides.
Just below the fore-part amidship was a twelve-pounder gun, and beyond
the whole back stretched to the razor bow. She was not much to look at,
but she could still do her twenty-two knots and a bit over if called
upon, without unduly straining herself or her twin engines.
Jenkins gave an order and the lines were thrown off fore and aft. Then
the engines began to move and the _Zero_ slid quietly astern. Aboard
the submarine alongside heads appeared from the hatches, and a parting
insult was cast in an undertone at an able seaman who was coiling down
a line.
Slowly she cleared the sterns of the _Parentis_ and her satellites,
swung round, came ahead, and steadied on her course out of the harbour.
The fine weather still held and it was a lovely morning. The Fleet
looked majestic and awe-inspiring, and as the Torpedo Boat slipped past
a mammoth Dreadnought, an outsider comparing the two might have been
struck with the versatility of the Navy’s work. Big ships or little,
all were marined by the same class of seamen, who never knew from one
day to another in what class or size of ship they might be required to
carry out their duties.
The _Zero_ picked her way between the vessels, Jenkins training his
glass on each as she went by. Here the ship’s company were running
round the decks to the strains of a lively tune played by the Marine
Band, there detachments were parading and squads under gunnery
instruction. The Church pendant flown by a third ship indicated that
the crew were at prayers, and divisions were mustering to the strains
of a bugle call on a fourth. Signals were being hoisted, semaphores
were busily waving their arms, and picket boats and trawlers dotted the
open spaces between the vessels. It was ‘The Fleet,’ and accustomed to
it as he was, the sight sent a thrill through him as he took in the
scene.
As they cleared the gate and headed for the open sea Burton came up to
the bridge.
‘Fine weather for us, sir,’ he remarked, picking up a pair of
binoculars. ‘Light breeze and very nearly a flat calm.’
‘It is. Raymond will have to be pretty cunning if he’s going to get his
attacks in unseen to-day. The best weather for him is when there is
just a slight lop on the water. In a calm like this we ought to see the
“feather” of his old “look-stick”[10] without much difficulty.’
‘Personally, I haven’t had much practice at picking up periscopes, and
it never seems to me to be as easy as it sounds.’
‘Does take a bit of practice certainly, but with a little---- Hallo,
what’s that over there?’
‘“147” returning,’ he continued, lowering his glasses. ‘Not more than
six or seven miles off either. That shows you how hard it is to see ’em
even when they’re on the surface. What’s the time?’
‘Ten to nine, sir,’ said Burton, glancing at his watch.
‘We’d better whack her up to twenty knots then, and we’ll start a
zig-zag at once to exercise the helmsman. Raymond will be out any
minute now. We’re going to manœuvre anywhere in this area,’ he added,
with his finger on the chart, ‘so we ought to be able to see him dive.’