The Decoy Ship
That same afternoon, Sub-lieutenant Cavendish went on leave. That
was the official version given out to his messmates. They saw him
depart in a taxi, rigged out in mufti and with a prodigious amount
of "kit" that suggested a "tidy drop o' leaf". Cavendish's home was
in the Midlands, within a few miles of Grantham--but that was not
his objective. Two hours later, he put up at a modest hotel in
Southampton, patronized almost exclusively by Master Mariners of the
Mercantile Marine.
The next day he joined the S.S. _Complex_ at Southampton Docks as
Third Officer.
The _Complex_ was a tramp of 570 tons displacement, belonging to the
port of Grimsby, if the information painted on her stern were
correct. She was 230 feet in length. She had the usual raised
fo'c'sle and poop, with deckhouses and bridge amidships just for'ard
of her solitary funnel. Her fore- and mainmasts were of the "pole"
type, with the customary appendages in the shape of derricks.
She was under orders for Buenos Ayres with a cargo consisting
principally of cork.
The tramp resembled her kind in the matter of paint. Her sides were
supposed to be black, but there were several irregular patches of
red-lead, and broad streaks of iron rust. Her crew, rigged out in
nondescript garments, were still stowing cargo. She had raised steam
and the Blue Peter fluttered from the foremast head.
But, although her topsides were disreputable, the same could not be
said of her hull below the waterline. The bottom had recently been
coated with dull-grey anti-fouling composition, her owners being
evidently of the opinion that it was false economy to pay for extra
fuel simply to drive a barnacle-encrusted hull through the water.
Checking an almost irresistible impulse to salute the quarter-deck
as he came over the gangway, Cavendish went aft to report to the
"Old Man", who was standing at the head of the poop-ladder, rigged
out in blue cloth trousers, waistcoat with tarnished brass buttons,
and a cap bearing a salt-stained badge of a well-known shipping
firm, perched awry on his close-cropped head. He was in his shirt
sleeves. A very seasoned black briar pipe was between his strong,
even teeth.
"Hello, Weeds!" exclaimed the Old Man; "so you fetched here all
right? You'll find Seton and Carr down below. They'll tell you where
your cabin is. 'Fraid you won't find it very ship-shape, old thing."
A sailor came slouching aft.
"Beg pardon, sir!" he announced with a pukka naval salute. "There's
a Board of Trade chap come to see you."
Captain Meredith gave a gesture of annoyance. It was decidedly
unhealthy to have too many officious shore-people on board.
"All right," he replied. "And look here, Johnson, can't you remember
not to give salutes? Or must I send you back to the Depot?"
The man grinned and went off.
"That's one of my hardest jobs," commented the Old Man. "Trying to
make an A.B. forget what has been drilled into him from the first
day he joined at Shotley. And look here, Weeds, you're not a credit
to the ship. Your rig-out is just a trifle too smart and too new.
Try toning it down with a little tar."
Captain Meredith hurried off to interview the Board of Trade
Inspector, leaving Cavendish to his own resources on the deck of the
S.S. _Complex_.
Only the previous day the _Complex_ had come out of Portsmouth
Harbour as the _Cynesepion_. She had been hurriedly docked, her
bottom cleaned and coated in less than six hours. Her armament,
consisting of one 4.7, four 12-pounders, and a couple of 3-pounder
high-angle guns, had in the dead of night been placed in their
elaborately concealed mountings. Her holds and double-bottoms were
packed tightly with cork; ammunition, stores, and oil fuel were
placed on board, and with a naval crew, she was taken out of
Portsmouth to the Motherbank, off Ryde.
Here the uniformed crew were taken off by a Government tug--leaving
only twenty "hands" under a couple of officers to take the ship
round to Southampton.
Almost their first act was to paint out the name _Cynesephon_ and
substitute that of _Complex_.
Cavendish went below. In the alley-way he encountered Robin Seton,
whom, until that moment, Cavendish had imagined to be undergoing a
course at "Whaley"--a "two and a half striper", now posing as the
first officer of the tramp.
"Cheerio, George!" was Seton's greetings. "Now our little band of
merry wreckers is complete. Seen Carr and Warrender? They're
sculling around somewhere. My word!"
He stepped back and critically looked Cavendish up and down.
"My word!" he continued. "I've never seen such a smart-looking Third
Mate before."
"So the Old Man remarked--or words to that effect," rejoined
Cavendish, with a laugh. "No matter. Live and learn. Where did you
pick up your rig-out?"
Seton held open his coat for inspection.
"Got kitted out in the Ditches for something like half a dozen
Bradburys," he replied proudly. "Sent the gunner's mate along to
make a deal. And he did. He knows the ropes."
Cavendish wished that he had known of the gunner's mate's
capabilities in the wardrobe department. He had laid out over
twenty-five pounds in an outfit that had already been twice remarked
upon as being out of place. He quite agreed that the hardest part of
the job was not to be smart, and to forget that he was an officer of
the Royal Navy.
The Sub was shown his cabin. He reappeared twenty minutes later
looking more his part.
The _Complex_ was under way. She had just parted company with a
fussy little tug that had coaxed, cajoled, pulled, and pushed her
out of the Empress Dock. Southampton lay astern, the Weston Shelf
buoy was broad on the port-beam, while ahead lay the wide stretch of
Southampton Water, until it merged into the Solent beyond the
airship sheds at Calshot Castle.
There was plenty of traffic, from gigantic ocean liners to
steam-lighters and "spreeties"--low-lying barges with a generous
spread of tanned canvas. Tramp steamers, topsail schooners, steam,
motor, and sailing yachts, tugs, "hoppers", and fishing-smacks
passed in endless procession, little knowing the venomous nature of
the little _Complex_ as she ploughed her way through the calm water
at a modest nine knots.
It was Alec Carr, the navigator, who showed Cavendish round the
ship. Carr, a burly, six feet two inch giant, hailing from North
Berwick, was the man for that job. He, like the Captain, knew the
ship from end to end, since both had served in a similar craft
during the later stages of the Great War.
The transformation had been an astounding one. From a long,
low-lying "P" boat, she had been altered into a very presentable
tramp, looking at least of 1500 tons, although her actual
displacement was little more than one-third of that tonnage. Yet she
retained the speed and high manoeuvring qualities of her original
role. She could work up to 23 knots when required, could turn almost
in her own length and with the minimum of "tactical advance". She
could go astern at 18 knots, while her nominal fuel capacity of 93
tons could be augmented sufficiently to give her a cruising distance
of 4000 miles without replenishing her oil tanks.
For armament, she was adequately provided with weapons calculated to
deal with anything short of a cruiser. The 4.7-inch gun was housed
in the fore-hold, the gun and its mounting being raised when
required by hydraulic pressure. On either side of the deck-house
under the bridge was a 12-pounder, each concealed by a section of
the dummy bulwarks, while by lowering two of the wings of the
deck-house an arc of fire of 160° could be obtained. Two more were
as skilfully concealed aft, while the 6-pounders were mounted in
boats stowed on top of the deck-house abaft the mainmast. The boats
were dummies, constructed to fall apart by means of hinges and
quick-release gear.
In addition she carried four 14-inch torpedo tubes of the
"submerged" type, and a couple of mortars for discharging depth
charges at a range of two hundred yards.
The "P-boat's" original conning-tower was still in existence,
although, owing to the new superstructure, its sphere of usefulness
was considerably curtailed. Another had been built for'ard.
Cavendish walked right round the latter and never spotted it.
Outwardly, nothing was to be seen but a big reel of wire hawser. The
reel was a dummy, being actually the hood of the armoured
conning-tower.
"See the idea?" inquired Carr. "If, by a bit of luck, we do fall in
with a pirate, he'll start shelling the bridge. We found that with
Fritz. Let him shell. There'll be no one there, and from this little
box of tricks our skipper can keep an eye on him until he decides
it's time to put him in his place--to wit, Davy Jones his locker."
"What's your opinion about the loss of these merchant vessels?"
asked Cavendish.
Carr shook his head.
"Ask me another," he replied. "That's what we're sent to find out."
The _Complex_ was now well down the Solent. Yarmouth(1) was on the
port bow, Lymington to starboard, and the high light of Hurst right
ahead, rising like a needle out of the sun-flecked water.
A light cruiser, with her distinguishing signals displayed and a
commodore's broad pennant flying from the masthead, came pelting
along, passing the decoy ship a cable's length to port. The
_Complex_ dipped her ragged, smoke-begrimed Red Ensign. Carr and
Cavendish exchanged glances.
"I was expecting the 'Still' to sound," declared the former. "Wonder
what Old Man Meredith thought of it all?"
As a matter of fact, Captain Meredith, D.S.O. (with bar), had almost
given himself away, and his vessel as well, by ordering the
strangely-garbed crew to attention. To deliberately ignore a
commodore's broad pennant was the most trying experience he had had
that day, which was saying a lot.
"Think we'll have any luck?" asked Cavendish, reverting to the
burning topic of the hour--the hoped-for meeting with an as yet
mythical pirate.
"Goodness knows," replied Carr. "I trust so. 'Tany rate, whether
we're up against a submarine or a commerce destroyer, we'll give 'em
a thundering good run for their money."
For the next few days, all hands were busily engaged in rehearsing
for the forthcoming show. Every member of the crew took up his cue
with zest, confident that should occasion arise they would play
their part to the utmost satisfaction of the navy generally, and
themselves in particular, and to the complete discomfiture of the
enemy--whoever or whatever he might be.
The drills took two distinct forms. The first was that of countering
an attack by a surface ship. In this case, with the exception of a
few hands leaning idly over the bulwarks and a couple of officers on
the bridge, the crew were at action stations and carefully hidden
from external observation. Right aft, crouching in a steel shelter
made to resemble a skylight, was a seaman holding the uncleated
halliards of the ensign staff. It was his duty, on hearing the
"action" gong, to strike the Red Ensign and substitute the White.
Simultaneously, all gun-screens were to be lowered and every gun
that could be trained on the target was to open fire, while below
the waterline the L.T.O.'s stood by the torpedo tubes ready to
launch the deadly missiles on an invisible objective; the direction
of the "run" being governed by controls from the conning-tower.
Should the piratical craft turn out to be a submarine, the procedure
was of an entirely different nature. The enemy might approach
submerged and torpedo her prey. In that event, the "panic-party"
would make a wild rush for the boats. One of the boats would be
purposely lowered by one of the falls only, so that it would tumble
bows on into the water. The "abandon ship" stunt would then be
carried out, the men in the boats rowing desperately from the
sinking ship.
"'Ere you--bow an' number three," bellowed the coxswain. "Stop
grinnin'. You ain't a bloomin' picnic party. Look as if you was
scared stiff. No! Don't for goodness' sake pull together. You ain't
pullin' for the Squadron Cup. You're supposed to be goin' for dear
life. Pull any'ow, as if Old Nick were in the perishin' boat."
The rest of the decoy ship's crew were at action stations,
supposedly on a foundering vessel, although it was to be expected
that even if torpedoed the _Complex_ would keep afloat by reason of
the "cargo" of cork. There, prone in their places of concealment,
unable to see what was going on, they had to wait until the
submarine appeared awash and on a suitable bearing for the guns to
be brought into action.
If the submarine declined to investigate and the _Complex_ was
really sinking, there was nothing for the crew of the latter to do
but to abandon ship in earnest and trust that a wireless message to
the destroyers perhaps a hundred miles away would bring succour and
perhaps retribution, should the lurking enemy be located by aerial
observation from co-operating seaplanes.
Then, again, there was the chance of the submarine coming to the
surface and shelling the _Complex_ at long range. That was the most
trying situation of all. The supposed tramp had to withhold her fire
and take her gruelling without replying. The only thing to be done
was to stop engines, start a fire on board, and, by flooding the
for'ard water-tight compartments, give the impression that she was
sinking by the bows. Then arose the question: would the submarine
close sufficiently for the decoy ship's guns to bear and fire with
fatal consequence to her foe? For the _Complex_ to reveal herself as
a formidably armed warship and at the same time to allow the
submarine to get away, was the worst thing that could happen. To
destroy was the _Complex's_ mission; anything short of that meant
failure--glorious failure, perhaps, but none the less futile.
Sub-lieutenant Cavendish's action station was by the two after
12-pounders, his duty being to keep the enemy under observation
through a periscope. The latter was cleverly disguised as a
galley-funnel. The post was a hazardous one--rather more than the
rest. Since the _Complex_, if shelled by a submarine, had to
simulate flight, the after part of the ship would bear the brunt of
things. Then it was quite possible that the depth-charges might be
exploded by shell-fire and blow the poop and everyone near it to
smithereens. Cavendish had to admit, with a shivering sensation in
the region of his spine, that Commander Broadstairs' hint of the
dangerous nature of the mission for which the Sub had volunteered
was by no means an exaggeration.
1) In the Isle of Wight.