CLIPPED WINGS
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
----
"No boy alive will be able to peruse Mr. Westerman's pages
without a quickening of his pulses."--Outlook.
----
A Cadet of the Mercantile Marine.
Clipped Wings: Thrills in Three Elements.
Sea Scouts up-Channel; or, The Cruise of the _Spindrift_.
The Wireless Officer.
The Third Officer: A Present-day Pirate Story.
Sea Scouts Abroad: Further Adventures of the _Olivette_.
The Salving of the "Fusi Yama": A Post-War
Story of the Sea.
Sea Scouts All: How the _Olivette_ was won.
Winning his Wings: A Story of the R.A.F.
The Thick of the Fray at Zeebrugge: April, 1918.
With Beatty off Jutland: A Romance of the Great Sea
Fight.
The Submarine Hunters: A Story of Naval Patrol Work.
A Lively Bit of the Front: A Tale of the New Zealand
Rifles on the Western Front.
A Sub and a Submarine: The Story of H.M. Submarine
R19 in the Great War.
Under the White Ensign: A Naval Story of the Great
War.
Rounding up the Raider: A Naval Story of the Great
War.
The Fight for Constantinople: A Tale of the Gallipoli
Peninsula.
A Lad of Grit: A Story of Restoration Times.
----
LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LTD., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.
[Illustration: MAKING UP THE RIVER
_Page_ 93]
CLIPPED WINGS
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
Author of "The Wireless Officer"
"Sea Scouts up-Channel," &c.
_Illustrated by E. S. Hodgson_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
_Printed and bound in Great Britain_
Contents
----
CHAP. Page
I. PAID OFF . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
II. A DAY OF SURPRISES . . . . . . . . . . 17
III. UNCLE BRIAN. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
IV. DON RAMON DIAZ . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
V. THE MENACE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
VI. THE SUPER FLYING-BOAT. . . . . . . . . 48
VII. PETER'S FIRST ASCENT . . . . . . . . . 54
VIII. UNCLE BRIAN'S SECRET . . . . . . . . . 62
IX. THE PROVING OF THE RAYS. . . . . . . . 69
X. PLANS FOR ESCAPE . . . . . . . . . . . 79
XI. UP THE RIO GUAYA . . . . . . . . . . . 87
XII. "CAUGHT OUT" . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
XIII. WRECKED. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110
XIV. A CHANGE OF LOCOMOTION . . . . . . . . 120
XV. OVER THE SIERRAS . . . . . . . . . . . 131
XVI. "CRASHED". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
XVII. THE PASSAGE PERILOUS . . . . . . . . . 152
XVIII. ORDERS FOR CAVENDISH . . . . . . . . . 162
XIX. THE DECOY SHIP . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
XX. TWO AGAINST ONE. . . . . . . . . . . . 180
XXI. A STERN CHASE. . . . . . . . . . . . . 191
XXII. FLYING-BOATS _versus_ DESTROYERS . . . 200
XXIII. AT THE ADMIRALTY . . . . . . . . . . . 212
XXIV. WAR IN HOME WATERS . . . . . . . . . . 224
XXV. SEAPLANE AND SUBMARINE . . . . . . . . 232
XXVI. ORDERS TO PROCEED. . . . . . . . . . . 241
XXVII. IN ACTION--FORE-TOP. . . . . . . . . . 250
XXVIII. IN ACTION--'TWEEN DECKS. . . . . . . . 265
XXIX. AFTER THE BATTLE . . . . . . . . . . . 279
XXX. THE END OF THE RIOGUAYAN AIR FLEET . . 228
XXXI. PETER GOES ASHORE. . . . . . . . . . . 299
XXXII. "THE FENCE IMPREGNABLE". . . . . . . . 311
Illustrations
---- Facing page
MAKING UP THE RIVER . . . . . . . . . . ._Frontispiece_
PETER MEETS SEÑOR DIAZ. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
PETER TACKLES THE SENTRY. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128
THE "PANIC PARTY" (missing from book) . . . . . . . 184
"WEEDS! BEAR A HAND!" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 272
A BLAZE OF DAZZLING BEAMS . . . . . . . . . . . . . 296
CLIPPED WINGS
CHAPTER I
Paid Off
H.M.S. _Baffin_, light cruiser, of 9900 tons displacement, 30 knots
speed, and armed with seven 7.5-inch and twelve 3-inch guns, was
approaching Portsmouth. Already the Nab Tower bore broad on her port
beam. Ahead lay the low-lying Portsea Island, upon which Portsmouth
is built, backed by the grassy Portsdown Hills with their white
chalk-pits standing out clearly in the rays of the midday sun.
The _Baffin_ was a typical unit of the post-War fleet--long, lean,
with two funnels of unequal size; a tripod mast with a decidedly
ugly raking topmast, and an aftermast that, by reason of its
position, should be termed a mainmast, but, on account of its
stumpiness, could not reasonably be expected to be so termed. As if
to make amends for its insignificance, the after-mast flew a white
pennant, streaming yards and yards astern and terminating in a
gilded bladder that bobbed and curtsied in the frothy wake of the
swiftly-moving vessel.
That streamer--the paying-off pennant--indicated the cruiser's
immediate programme. She was on the eve of completing her two years'
commission.
To the lower-deck ratings that pennant meant home, and with it long
"leaf" and freedom from strict discipline, watch on and watch off,
divisions, subdivisions, "tricks", and other items of routine that
combine to make up Jack's working day and night afloat.
The town-bred bluejacket or stoker would probably make for his old
haunts and, with a seaman's typical philosophy, note the fact that
many of his former acquaintances were vainly looking for work. Then,
at the expiration of his "leaf", he would shoulder his bundle and
return to the depot, thankful that he would have to take no thought
for the morrow as to how he was to obtain his next meal.
Then, too, the seaman recruited from the country would make tracks
for his native village, there to spend the next few weeks
contemplating the dull-witted son of the soil--his companion of
boyhood days--plodding at the tail-end of a plough. Quite possibly
the labourer was being paid far more than he--the highly-trained
product of a mechanical age in which electricity and oil-fed turbine
engines have supplanted masts and yards. But, on the other hand, the
bluejacket will thank his lucky stars that fate--usually in the
guise of a naval recruiting officer--drew him from the unimaginative
land and set his course upon the boundless ocean. At all events his
outlook on life was not bordered by the hedges that surrounded the
fields which the boon companions of his youth tilled from one year's
end to another.
To the officers, "paying off" presented a somewhat different aspect.
Working, eating, drinking, and playing together for the space of two
years, inevitably thrown into each other's society owing to the
limits of the ward- and gun-rooms, they cannot but form deep
attachments for each other. Only those men who have served a
commission afloat can thoroughly realize the meaning of the term
"band of brothers".
And now, with the paying off of the ship, they would be scattered.
True, they were going home, but the fact remained that some would
"go on the beach" for the last time. Officers still in their prime
would have to be compulsorily retired to rot ashore, because a
conference in America has agreed that there is no longer any
necessity for Britannia to rule the waves. For similar reasons
junior officers, on the threshold of what had promised to be a long
and honourable career, were being politely invited to resign their
commissions, the invitation being backed by a hint that if they did
not they would be ultimately "fired" as being surplus to the revised
establishment.
Amongst the latter was Acting Sub-lieutenant Peter Corbold, a tall,
broad-shouldered youth of nineteen or twenty. The only son of a
country clergyman, Peter had been maintained at Dartmouth at a
sacrifice that had played havoc with his father's meagre stipend;
but, by dint of the strictest economy, the latter had seen his son
through the earlier stages of his naval career, until Peter was in a
measure self-supporting.
Studious by nature and conscientious in carrying out his duties,
Peter Corbold not only passed the successive examinations required
by the Admiralty during his midshipman days, but gained high praise
in his captain's reports. In due course, he obtained acting rank of
sub-lieutenant and was expecting to be confirmed as such when there
came a bombshell in the form of an official memorandum on the
reduction of _personnel_.
It was not a pleasing prospect. Its nearness became painfully
apparent as the _Baffin_ approached her home port. In other
circumstances, Peter might have looked ahead and fancied himself in
command of a destroyer, a light cruiser, or even a battleship,
gliding between those chequered circular forts that rise like
gigantic inverted buckets from the floor of the anchorage of
Spithead. Now that dream was shattered. There remained but the
prospect of "the beach", with a meagre gratuity as a sorry solace
for his compulsory abandonment of a naval career.
A deeply-laden Thames barge, beating up on a weather-going tide
against a stiff sou'westerly breeze, attracted his attention.
Sailing-craft of all sorts and sizes had a fascination for him, and
this bluff-browed craft, with her dull-red sprit-mainsail and
topsail straining in the wind, made a striking picture as the
foam-flecked waves swept completely over her battened-down hatches.
The only visible member of her crew was a tubby, blue-jerseyed man,
wearing a billycock hat, who stood with legs planted firmly apart at
the wheel, happy in the knowledge that the "brass-bound blighters"
on the cruiser would have to alter helm--not he.
"Hello, old son!" exclaimed a voice, as a hand descended heavily on
Peter's shoulder. "How would that job suit?... Hang it all, man;
sorry, I didn't mean that. I forgot."
The speaker was Sub-lieutenant Havelock de Vere Cavendish, a
high-spirited youth, who answered readily enough to such
affectionate names as "Weeds", "Tawny", "Straight-cut", "Woodbine",
or any other term that bore any resemblance to the various brands of
tobacco.
Cavendish was nearly twelve months senior to Peter Corbold. In
height he was a full two inches shorter, and lacked the breadth of
shoulder and massive limbs of his chum. Peter's features were dark,
and might be described as ruffled; Cavendish's were fair and
rounded. Peter was essentially a thinker; the other was a man of
action, with an impulsive temperament. In short, they had little or
nothing in common, as far as build, appearance, and characteristics
went, but they were close chums.
"Nothing to apologize for, old son," rejoined Peter. "There's no
such luck for me--even to the extent of becoming the master of a
barge. There's nothin' doin' afloat for a has-been naval bloke
nowadays. There are far too many Mercantile Marine fellows on the
beach looking for jobs as it is."
"That's a fact," admitted his chum soberly.
Cavendish was one of the lucky ones, although, with his
characteristic honesty, he could form no idea why his name should
have been "ear-marked" for retention in the Service. He had not
shone in his exams. More than once he had got into scrapes, harmless
enough, during his career at Dartmouth. Perhaps it was the fearless,
almost foolhardy feat he had performed in mid-Atlantic, when he took
the _Baffin's_ second cutter alongside a burning tanker--a
German--and rescued seven survivors from a raging inferno, that had
been a deciding factor in his retention.
Probably he alone of all the officers knew the precarious state of
Peter Corbold's finances and the gloomy outlook that confronted him.
So much he gathered by "putting two and two together". Peter was not
a fellow to moan and whine, but was inclined to reticence on the
matter.
"What are you going to do, old thing?" he demanded abruptly.
"Haven't any plans," replied Peter. "At least, nothing definite to
work upon. Probably I'll go abroad."
"Canada or Australia?"
Corbold shook his head.
"No; I've been thinking of going to Rioguay," he replied. "I've an
uncle out there. Mining engineer--nitrates, I believe, but I'm not
sure."
"Rioguay? Where's that?" inquired Cavendish. "Somewhere in South
America, isn't it?"
"Quite a flourishing little republic," declared Peter. "It has been
going steadily ahead ever since that little scrap with Brazil.
People are mostly of Spanish and Indian descent, of course, but
there's a fair sprinkling of pure Europeans, I've been told."
The shrill notes of a bugle interrupted Corbold's words. Instantly,
every officer and man upon the _Baffin's_ deck stiffened to
attention, the white-helmeted marine detachment drawn up aft
presenting arms with the regularity and precision of a well-oiled
machine.
The light cruiser had entered Portsmouth Harbour and was now abreast
the blackened ruins of what was once the semaphore tower. Ahead and
on the starboard bow appeared three tapering masts above a block of
yellow-bricked offices. At the mizzen-truck fluttered a white flag
with a St. George's Cross. Quickly the rest of the vessel came into
view--a comparatively small black-hulled ship with triple bands of
white--lying, not riding to the tide, but in a dry dock, in which
she is fated to remain as long as her planks and timbers hold
together.
A few seconds later and again the bugle blares out--this time to
"carry on". The _Baffin_, as does every vessel belonging to His
Majesty's navy that passes that way, has paid her homage to the
renowned _Victory_. Past the huge building slip--from which, until
the Washington Conference left it untenanted and derelict, a
ceaseless procession of noble battleships sped to make their first
acquaintance with the ocean--the _Baffin_ glided. Then, under port
helm, she turned her lean bows towards the gigantic lock through
which she must pass to gain her allotted berth. Ahead were warships
of every size and condition; battle-scarred capital ships that had
borne the brunt of Jutland, gigantic seaplane-carriers, battle
cruisers, light cruisers, P-boats, destroyers, and
submarines--forlorn, neglected, and condemned to the scrap-heap. No
longer did the once-busy dockyard resound to the ceaseless rattle of
pneumatic hammers as the "maties" toiled to contribute their not
inconsiderable share to the supremacy of the Empire.
"You mark my words, old son," exclaimed Cavendish, "some day we'll
be sorry we've scrapped these ships. We'll want them pretty badly.
People talk of air power being the predominant factor, and that the
battleship is a back number! It's sea power that counts, has counted
from the beginning of history, and will do so till the end."