War in Home Waters
Brian Strong's surmise was a correct one. He had underrated the
craftiness of Don Ramon Diaz, Air Minister to the Government of
Rioguay. Strong mistrusted Diaz. Diaz mistrusted Strong. Each hoped
that the other was unsuspicious. Brian's hasty and daring departure
had removed all shadow of doubt on the Rioguayan's part, but that
did not give him any great concern. What was more to the point,
Ramon Diaz had acquired the secret of Strong's ray apparatus, and
had wasted no time in turning it to good account.
Sir John Pilrig decided that it was a fortunate circumstance, this
interview with a scientist unknown and lacking credentials. Not only
had Brian Strong afforded valuable information, but he had
unreservedly placed his invention at the Government's disposal.
Should the invention come up to expectations--and there was no
reason why it should not, judging by the results obtained by the
Rioguayan flying-boats on the _Cerro Algarrobo_ engagement--it would
reduce the rival aerial forces to a state of stalemate. It was, of
course, unfortunate that the secret was in hostile hands, he mused,
but there was some satisfaction to be derived from the knowledge
that the Rioguayan air forces were not the sole possessors of the
mysterious rays.
And--a remarkable fact, decided the Deputy Chief of Staff--the
inventor had asked nothing, either for himself or his nephew--a
rarity in these days of mercenary offers in the name of patriotism.
By eleven o'clock on the morning following the momentous interview,
Brian Strong, with Peter Corbold as his chief assistant, reported
for duty at Whale Island Naval Gunnery Establishment--an
artificially-constructed island in the upper reaches of Portsmouth
Harbour.
Already a large building had been allocated to them as an
experimental workshop, complete with lathes, benches, moulds, and
drawing-office, with electric light and power, and with a small
staff of armourers and electricians--the pick of the highly-skilled
naval artificers of the Gunnery School.
There, behind closed doors--for no one save the Commodore was
allowed entrance--Brian Strong set to work to reconstruct the device
that, for all time, it was hoped, was to draw the sting from the
terror of the skies.
At 4.45 of the same afternoon, a look-out of the R.N. signal station
at Culver Cliff in the Isle of Wight heard the rumble of distant
gunfire. There was nothing extraordinary in that. Men-of-war
carrying out gunnery practice in the Channel, he decided.
But when, almost simultaneously, he heard the shriek of a
projectile, his interest became aroused. It was part of his duty to
warn ships, when, as sometimes happened, the ricochetting shells
pitched against the chalk cliff, of the possible danger to life and
property of His Majesty's liege subjects.
"Bill!" he shouted to his opposite number, who was industriously
engaged in mending frayed signal flags in the room under the
look-out place. "Stand by to 'oist 'height nought nine'. The
_Spanker_--'er wot went out this mornin'--is a-lobbin' 4.7's
ashore."
Having shared the responsibility of taking action, the signalman
applied his eye to a large telescope mounted on a tripod.
From his elevated post, the look-out hut being 350 feet above
sea-level, the horizon line was roughly twenty-five miles away. The
sea was calm, the atmosphere clear, except for a few patches of mist
that threatened to develop into a sea-fog.
There was but one vessel in sight. She proved to be a tramp bound
up-channel. There were no signs of the light cruiser _Spanker_.
Even as he looked, came another faint report.
The man, by reason of long experience, knew that it was not a
quick-firer. The interval was too great for that. The unusual pitch
of the whine of the projectile puzzled him.
Suddenly a long, low-lying dark object appeared in the field of the
high-powered telescope.
"Gosh!" ejaculated the bluejacket, "s'elp me if she ain't a
perishin' submarine."
Even as he looked, he saw a long, slender object rise from the
for'ard deck of the distant vessel. Slowly but unhesitatingly it
moved until the watcher found himself gazing down the muzzle of a
gun. Instinctively he shut his eyes, forgetting that a distance of
about fifteen miles separated him from that menacing ring of metal.
When he looked again, the gun had been trained to an elevation of
nearly forty-five degrees. There was a flash... thirty seconds later
he heard the report.
Twice more the gun was discharged; then the mysterious vessel
submerged.
The spell was broken as far as the signalman was concerned. Clamping
the telescope, so that it remained trained upon the spot where he
had seen the submarine disappear, he shouted to his mate, who was
leisurely bending the hoist of flags to the signal halliards.
"Belay there," he exclaimed excitedly. "Get on the telephone to the
C.-in-C. There's a bloomin' submarine been shellin' Pompey."
His opposite number looked up languidly and solemnly winked his eye.
"'Tain't the fust of April, mate," he remarked in mild reproof.
"D'ye want ter get me 'ung, or what not?"
Ten minutes later, the Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth was informed
by wireless telephony from Culver Cliff of something that he was
already well aware of--that five shells had been fired at the
principal naval port of the British Empire. In addition, he learnt
that the shells came from a submarine, nationality unknown,
operating 16 miles S. 1/2 E. magnetic from Culver Cliff Signal
Station.
In a very short time, the Admiral was in possession of material
facts concerning the damage. One projectile had fallen in the
Dockyard, completely demolishing the caisson at the entrance to No.
15 Dock, and severely damaging the light cruiser _Volobus_, which
was undergoing repairs in that particular dock.
Another had hit the seaplane carrier _Furious_, which had recently
returned from the Mediterranean. The shell had descended obliquely,
just in the wake of the conning-tower. Fitted with a delayed-action
fuse, the missile penetrated three decks before exploding in the
port engine-room. The greatest effect of the explosive was
downwards, indicating that it was composed of a substance allied to
dynamite. The double-bottoms and "blister" on the port side were
shattered to a length of fifty feet, pieces of the three-inch
side-armour being torn bodily away. The _Furious_ sank in eight
minutes in seven fathoms.
Shell No. 3 descended on the railway close to Fratton Bridge,
blowing a hole eighty feet in diameter in the railway cutting and
bringing down the bridge. Here, the loss of life was great, for the
bridge carried one of the principal arteries of the town. In
addition, the sole means of railroad communication into and out of
Portsmouth was cut. The most sanguine estimate placed the completion
of the repairs at eight weeks. The remaining two projectiles luckily
failed to do serious damage, one falling in the sea two hundred
yards from the South Parade Pier, the other making a huge crater in
the Fratton Park football ground twenty minutes after a huge crowd
had departed.
The British nation had abandoned its old-established ideas of
insular immunity. The lesson of the Great War, particularly the
German "tip-and-run" raids on Scarborough, Whitby, Hartlepool,
Lowestoft, Great Yarmouth, Dover, and elsewhere, had destroyed the
fetish-like faith in the navy to render our shores inviolate. With a
length of coast-line greater than that of any other country, taken
in proportion to its area, Great Britain offers a decided chance of
success to a daring sea-raider, and even when her fleet was at the
zenith of power and size, the numbers were insufficient to protect
the coast from minor hostile operations without seriously affecting
the striking power of the Grand Fleet.
Thus the news of the bombardment of Portsmouth occasioned
comparatively little surprise, except for the mystery of the affair.
What was the nationality of the enemy craft? From what port did she
come? Was she the emissary of a treacherous European Power, hoping
to take advantage of the external and internal difficulties of the
British Empire to deal a coward blow?
The idea of linking the submarine with the distant and insignificant
Republic of Rioguay, with whom Britain was at war, seemed out of the
question. Yet it was a submersible cruiser seventeen days out of San
Antonio that had thrown out a challenge to the principal naval port
of Great Britain.
Even as a professor of anatomy can reconstruct the skeleton of a
prehistoric mammoth from a few scraps of bone, so can a gunnery
expert decide upon the calibre and power of an unseen and unknown
weapon from a few fragments of its projectile--and with a greater
degree of certainty than in the case of the constructive anatomist.
From available data, combined with information picked up from
examination of such remains of the shells as were recovered, the
experts decided that the projectile was seven feet in length with an
external diameter of four inches; that the weapon was a 120-calibre
gun, with a muzzle velocity of from 3000 to 3500 feet per second and
with an extreme range of fifty-five miles.
It was also established that at a range of twenty-five miles--the
distance between the position of the submarine and the town of
Portsmouth--the projectiles must have attained the extreme vertical
height of eight and a half miles.
In the midst of his labours, Brian Strong was called to the
telephone in the Commodore's office to answer an urgent inquiry from
the Admiralty.
Sir John Pilrig was at the instrument, anxiously inquiring whether
Mr. Strong could give him any information about the Rioguayan
submarines.
"I cannot," replied Brian bluntly. He was not the sort of man to
beat about the bush and try to give the impression that he was in
the position to supply the information. "Aircraft was my line. But
my nephew here can give you particulars."
Peter took his uncle's place at the telephone and described the
submarines he had seen manoeuvring off San Antonio.
"They were possibly instructional craft," he added. "Somewhat
resembling our obsolete C class."
He proceeded to describe the craft in clear technical language,
which compelled Sir John to inquire in what circumstances he had
gained the knowledge.
"I was a sub-lieutenant, R.N., sir," he replied. "Retired under the
regulations for the reduction of personnel."
"Ah," commented the Deputy Chief of Staff. "Very good. I'll ring off
now."
Peter went back to his work.