In Action--Fore-top
Eight bells had just sounded off. Cavendish, the officer of the
forenoon watch, had been relieved and was descending the
bridge-ladder, when he ran against Peter Corbold, who, having
completed the daily examination of the anti-aircraft gadgets on
board the flagship, was about to report to the Commander.
"Hello, Weeds," exclaimed Peter. "Nothing through, I suppose?"
Cavendish shook his head.
"Absolutely nothing," he replied. "Patrolling destroyers twenty-five
miles ahead of us haven't reported even a single sail. It's my
belief the blighters have given us the slip and are back in the Rio
Guaya. As for----"
The sentence remained unfinished. A shrill bugle-call rent the air,
its meaning as clear as its note.
"Action stations at the double," exclaimed Peter. "That's business.
S'long, old bird."
The two chums parted company, Cavendish making for B turret, while
Peter, having paid a hurried visit to his cabin for his gas mask,
binoculars, life-saving waistcoat, and emergency ration, began the
ascent to the fore-top.
Here he found two other officers and three ratings; a midshipman
followed, so that seven people were occupying rather cramped
quarters in a steel, roofed-in box, 120 feet above the water-line.
Peter's duties were chiefly confined to taking notes of the
impending action. He was also to keep a lookout for hostile
aircraft. Should any Rioguayan flying-boat appear in sight, he was
to immediately warn the party told off to man the new anti-aircraft
devices. The apparatus, until actually required, was kept below the
armoured deck, whence it could be whipped up into position and
connected with the dynamos supplying the necessary electric current.
It was a weird experience. Viewed from aloft, the fore-deck and
superimposed turrets of the _Rebound_ looked like a model. Even the
enormous beam of the ship--slightly over a hundred feet--was dwarfed
to such an extent that it seemed possible to jump clear of the
sides.
The guns of A and B turrets were being turned with a view to testing
the training gear. Smoothly and easily the enormous weapons, looking
no bigger than twin pairs of lead pencils projecting from an
oval-shaped inverted dish, swung first on one beam and then on the
other; at one moment trained to full elevation, at another depressed
until the line of fire hardly cleared the slightly up-curved
fo'c'sle.
Ten feet above Peter's head the huge range-finder was being adjusted
by a gunnery lieutenant, his assistant standing by with telephones
and voice-tubes ready to communicate with the transmitting station
for "direction" firing.
The wind shrieked through the wire stays and shrouds and whistled
past the now unemployed signal halliards, for the battleships had
worked up to a speed of twenty-two knots. Each ship had hoisted two
battle-ensigns, the wind-stretched bunting presenting the only dash
of colour amidst a general tone of grey.
The four battleships were still in line ahead, the following craft
being almost hidden in the dense cloud of smoke from the flagship's
funnels.
Three miles to port and starboard were the light cruisers, standing
out clearly in the tropical sunshine. Farther away, ahead, astern,
and on both beams, were the destroyers detailed for anti-submarine
work, while two separate flotillas, held in reserve for a torpedo
attack upon the Rioguayan fleet, were almost invisible in the waste
of sun-flecked water.
Broad on the port beam could be discerned the land, San Valodaran
territory. Farther astern the coast-line dipped. The gap was the
broad estuary of the Rio Guaya. The British admiral had got between
the enemy and their sole means of regaining port. Provided he could
head the Rioguayan fleet away from neutral territorial waters, he
knew that there was nothing to prevent his bringing them to an
engagement.
Again and again Peter swept the horizon ahead with his binoculars.
Nothing--not even a blur of smoke--obscured the clearly defined line
which cut sea and sky. But far away out yonder wireless messages
were being sent by the scouting destroyers, announcing with ever
increasing certainty that the enemy was still coming south.
Two bells of the afternoon watch sounded off. Peter could hardly
realize that fifty minutes had elapsed since he ascended to his
eyrie. Surely it was about time, with the rival fleets approaching
at an aggregate rate of from forty to fifty-five knots, that
something was seen of the enemy?
A few seconds later and a triple hoist of bunting crept past the
fore-top. Fifty answering pennants were almost immediately hoisted
on fifty different ships, large and small. Then a burst of
cheering--a huge volume of sound--came from the invisible crews of
the battleships, to be taken up by their comrades in the cruisers
and on until the furthermost destroyer within signalling distance
joined in the roar of appreciation.
It was the Admiral's battle signal:
"Strike hard, strike straight for England."
"There they are, by smoke!" exclaimed one of Peter's companions in
the fore-top.
Peter raised his glasses. With uncanny suddenness, the hitherto
unbroken skyline was dotted with the masts, funnels, and
superstructures of a host of vessels, their hulls still below the
horizon. Approaching each other at the rate of an express train, the
rival fleets were now within visual distance or, roughly, fifteen
miles.
The destroyers that had been on ahead of the battleships, their
mission for the time being accomplished, had turned tail and were
taking station astern. The chance of getting to work with the deadly
torpedo was not yet. Until gun-fire had demoralized the half-tried
gunners of the Rioguayan battleships, it was a purposeless, futile
business to dispatch thinly-plated destroyers against armoured ships
bristling with quick-firers.
Suddenly Peter caught a glimpse of a couple of flying-boats hovering
well in advance of the British ships. Apparently they were engaged
upon reconnoitring duties--for they made no attempt to take up a
position favourable for bomb-dropping.
As a matter for precaution, Peter turned out one of the
anti-aircraft apparatus with its crew, but it was neither the time
nor the occasion to make use of the rays. Had the hostile aircraft
been bombing machines intent upon scoring a hit, the case would have
been different; but they were spotting machines, up to record the
results of salvoes and to acquaint the Rioguayan admiral of the
disposition of the British ships. The light cruisers would deal with
them.
It was the _Cadogan_ that brought her rays into action. Both
flying-boats dropped like shot partridges, recovering in time to
enable them to volplane to the water. Here they drifted helplessly
until a destroyer ranged alongside each in succession, removed the
crews, who did not offer the slightest resistance, and sent the
abandoned aircraft to the bottom.
"Neat work that," thought Peter. "It proves that friend Ramon Diaz
hasn't found an antidote for the rays. Apparently he's satisfied
with stealing Uncle Brian's secret."
Meanwhile the four battleships had deployed into single line
abreast, each with the object of getting its four 15-inch guns of A
and B turrets to bear upon the enemy.
So engrossed was Peter with the little episode of the flying-boats,
that the distant rumble of heavy gunfire--sounding like a subdued
thudding upon a bass drum--failed to attract his attention.
A few seconds later a veritable cauldron of foam, a dozen separate
pillars of spray, announced to him and to a favoured few who could
see what was going on outside the ship, that the action had
commenced by the enemy opening fire. As a gratifying corollary was
the knowledge that the salvo had fallen short.
"Sixteen thousand five hundred," chaunted the range-finding
lieutenant, the moment the battleship had emerged from the slowly
dispersing wall of spray.
"Train fifteen red," sang out another voice in a lower key.
The two for'ard turrets swung a few degrees to the left. The long
lean guns rose slowly, as if roused from slumber.
Again the distant rumble. This time Peter could see the massive
hostile projectiles approaching. The air seemed stiff with them,...
and they were coming _his_ way. Instinctively he ducked behind the
thin steel plating of the fore-top--a protection hardly more
serviceable than brown paper. The beastly shells seemed in no great
hurry.... He could see the bright copper rifling bands on the dark
grey bodies of the projectiles.
"Train twenty-five green," came the clear level tones again.
The _Rebound_ had starboarded helm, and the enemy, instead of being
on her port, were now well on her starboard bow.
With an infernal screech, the salvo trundled past the flagship's
foremast, falling within a radius of fifty yards, a good three
cables' lengths astern.
"Straddled, by Jove!" ejaculated a midshipman with Peter in the
fore-top. "Why the----?"
His question was interrupted by a deafening crash that shook the
tripod mast like a bamboo in a hurricane. The steel platform seemed
to jump bodily. A whiff of acrid-smelling cordite flicked over the
edge of the steel breastwork.
Peter gave a sidelong glance at the midshipman. It was the youngster
who, but a short while before, was gloating over the prospect of
being in action. The boy's face was pale underneath the tan. He
laughed--it was a forced laugh without any ring of sincerity about
it. His heart was doubtless in his boots, but he was making a
gallant effort to get it back into its right place.
Retrieving his binoculars, Corbold brought them to bear upon the
distant target. The terrific concussion was the simultaneous
discharge of the four 15-inch guns of A and B turrets. Already the
salvo was on its way towards a target unseen by the fifty odd men
cooped up within the two turrets. Eight miles away those shells, by
the latest workings of the science of gunnery, were calculated to
fall--and they did.
Through his glasses, Peter watched the receding flight of the huge
missiles, each weighing more than a ton. The impact came. At first
there was little to indicate to the observer's eye that they had
done their work--just a few dark splashes on the light grey hull of
a Rioguayan battleship--no more. But the next instant the scene had
changed considerably. The projectiles had burst, not on impact, but
after they had eaten into the vitals of the enemy ship. Lurid
flashes leapt from her superstructure and from different parts of
her lofty hull. One of her funnels sagged, hung irresolute, and then
crashed across her port battery. Then flame-tinged smoke poured
through a dozen unauthorized outlets. Reeling like a drunken man,
the Rioguayan battleship hauled out of line and disappeared behind
the ship next astern.
By this time the firing had become general. The four British
battleships were letting rip as fast as the loading-trays could
deliver shells and ammunition into the rapacious breeches of the
enormous weapons. The din was terrific, while the vibration was so
intense that the fore-top was shaking and rattling like a
high-pressure engine on a faulty bed.
"Goodness only knows what we're here for," thought Peter, wiping the
cordite dust from his eyes and shaking the beads of salt spray from
the peak of his cap. "Can't see a blessed thing."
He continued to peer out automatically. There was little to be seen,
save when an occasional lifting of the pall of spray and smoke
enabled him to see the flashes of the guns of the _Royal Oak_ and
her consorts. His senses were benumbed by the continuous crashes. He
was no longer afraid. A sort of stolid indifference seemed to take
possession of the fragments of thought left in his brain. The whole
business seemed a ghastly, bewildering nightmare.
A terrific crash, outvoicing every other noise in the pandemonium,
shook the fore-top like a rattle. The occupants, hurled violently,
subsided in a confused struggling heap upon the steel floor. For
some moments they remained prostrate, making no effort to sort
themselves out.
Peter opened his eyes, to close them quickly again. Someone's heel
was beating a tattoo within an inch or so of his nose.
He wriggled clear and sat up. One of the bluejackets, wedged in an
angle of the walls, was mopping the claret that welled from his
nose. The two officers and the midshipman were sorting themselves
out, looking too dazed to understand how they got there and what
they were doing. The second bluejacket was muttering to himself as
he fumbled in his jumper for some article that he had prized and
lost.
"Anyone hit?" bawled Peter.
His words were inaudible, but no one showed any signs of serious
injury. The fore-top was shaking badly--not only through the
continuous concussion, but as if it were no longer firmly secured to
the head of the tripod mast. The small oval aperture that opened
into the principal leg of the tripod, and formed an alternative
means of gaining the deck, was open. Wisps of smoke issued from it.
A man with a bandaged head appeared, squeezing with an obvious
effort through the door. Peter recognized him as a petty-officer
belonging to the range-finding party.
"Fair kippered that way, sir," he shouted. "A perishin' eel couldn't
wriggle through. No, mast ain't carried away quite. 'S got a bulge
in 'er. Lootenant, 'e told me to report verbally that our
range-finder's knocked out, an' all controls smashed up."
Having explained his presence, the P.O. spat on his hands, hitched
up his trousers, and lowered himself over the edge of the fore-top.
Peter, leaning over, watched him grip the rungs on the outside of
the tripod and commence his eighty-odd feet descent. Then something
else attracted the young officer's attention.
All was not well with A and B turrets. They had ceased firing. The
smoke had cleared considerably, but from the riven roof of A turret
a column of white flame was leaping almost as high as the platform
on which Peter stood. He was unpleasantly aware of the heat. The
updraught was like that of a blast-furnace. Someone touched him on
the shoulder. Turning, he saw Ambrose, one of the officers with him
on the top.
"Looks like the _Queen Mary_ stunt," said Ambrose grimly. "We'll be
blown sky high in half a shake."
Peter replied that that possibility was by no means remote. That
white flame came from burning cordite. Once the fire got to the
magazine the _Rebound_ would be blown to smithereens.
"We shan't have to go as far as some of those poor blighters,"
continued Ambrose, with a wry smile. He came of a stock of fighting
men, many of whom had met death with a jest on their lips.
It was indeed a desperate situation. The occupants of the fore-top
were craning their necks over the sizzling flame. Projectiles were
still hurtling through the air. Although the for'ard guns of the
flagship had ceased fire, Q and X turrets were still hard at it,
trained abeam to starboard. Smoke was pouring from the funnels and
enveloping the fore-top. Either the wind had changed, or else the
ship had swung round sixteen points and was retracing her course. At
least, Peter imagined so, until a partial clearing of the smoke
showed that the _Rebound_ was going astern, but still towards the
enemy line. Battered and bruised for'ard, and with her bows well
down, she was still holding her place in the line.
Even as he watched, Peter fancied that the column of white flame was
diminishing. Men, looking no larger than flies, were swarming round
the turret with hoses directing powerful jets of water into the
raging inferno. Steam mingled with the flame. The pillar of fire
wavered, died down, flared up again, and finally went out like a
guttered candle.
Losing all account of time, Peter "carried on"--doing absolutely
nothing. His range of vision was limited, owing to dense clouds of
smoke, steam, and spray. The turret sighters and men at the
rangefinders on the "Argo" towers, could see much better than he,
since the atmosphere was less obscured closer to the waterline and
the opposing fleets had drawn to within torpedo range. As far as
Corbold was concerned, existence seemed to be composed of a
continual roar and vibration, punctuated by deeper concussions that
indicated direct hits from Rioguayan guns. How the battle was
progressing, he knew not. That it was being fiercely contested, he
had no doubt, nor had he that ultimate victory would be with the
ships flying the glorious White Ensign. He was beginning to feel
horribly sick, for in addition to the distracting vibration, a whiff
of poison gas-shell had wafted over the fore-top.
A flash of orange-coloured flame rent the billowing clouds of
acrid-smelling smoke. The light seemed to spring from a source
within a few feet of the tripod mast-head. Actually a 5.9-inch had
glanced obliquely from the hood of B turret and had burst outside
the massive steel walls of the conning-tower.
Again Peter was hurled against the side of the fore-top. How long he
remained there, he had not the faintest recollection. At length he
raised his head. His companions were strangely quiet, except the
midshipman, who was vainly attempting to stifle his groans. There
were jagged rents in the floor and in the sides of the fore-top;
there were also holes punched as neatly as if done by a pneumatic
drill. There were pools, too, of dark sticky liquid....
Peter struggled to his feet, somewhat surprised that he was able to
do so. As far as he knew, he had not been hit. He turned his
attention to his companions. Ambrose was lying on his side, his face
pillowed on his left arm. There was the same grim smile on his face.
He looked to be sleeping peacefully, but it was the sleep that knows
no wakening on this earth. The other lieutenant and the two
bluejackets were simply shattered lumps of clay. Only Peter and the
midshipman were left alive out of the seven, since there was no
trace of the third able seaman.
The snottie looked Peter in the face with eyes that resembled those
of a sheep on the slaughter-block.
"I've stopped one," he exclaimed feebly. "'Fraid it's the last
fielding I'll ever do."
His left leg was completely severed just below the knee, yet Peter
noticed the stump was only bleeding very slightly. The shock had
evidently contracted the torn arteries, but there was every
possibility of a rush of life-blood before very long.
Fumbling with unsteady fingers at his first-aid outfit, Peter
contrived to rig up a rough-and-ready tourniquet. His next step was
to get the wounded lad down to the dressing-station. As far as he,
personally, was concerned, there was not the slightest reason why he
should remain in the wreck of the fore-top. The question was, how
was he to get the midshipman down?
Even had the passage down and within the centre leg of the tripod
been available (which it was not), the small diameter of the shaft
would not have permitted the descent of one man with another
clinging to his back. To lower the snottie was also out of the
question, since the signal halliard nearest the mast had been shot
away and no other rope was available. The only likely way was to
descend on the outside of the mast by means of the rungs provided
for that purpose.
"Can you hang on, do you think?" inquired Peter anxiously.
"I'll have a good shot at it, anyway," was the reply. As a matter of
precaution, the young lieutenant knotted his scarf round the
midshipman's body and his own. Then, heavily burdened, he let
himself down through the jagged gap in the floor of the fore-top
that had once been a trap-door.
Rung by rung he made his way, never once looking down and
religiously adhering to the old sea maxim: "Never let go with more
than one hand or foot at a time."
The eighty-odd feet descent seemed interminable. Momentarily,
Peter's burden grew heavier. The lad's grip, at first so strong as
to threaten to choke him, was becoming feebler. His own leg-muscles
were giving indications of cramp, or else, perhaps, he had received
an injury of which at the time he was unaware. Presently his left
foot, groping for the next rung, failed to find a temporary
resting-place. For the first time in the descent, Peter looked down.
Where a series of rungs should have been, was a gaping void,
encompassed by a saw-like edge of riven steel. In ordinary
circumstances, he could have dropped without risk, since he was only
about eight feet above the boat-deck. But where the leg of the
tripod passed through the boat- and flying-decks was an abyss, out
of which acrid fumes were wafting. A shell that had penetrated the
side had burst on the upper-deck and had blown upwards, completely
isolating the stricken leg of the tripod from the other two decks by
a gap at least fifteen feet across.
"If I cast you adrift, can you hang on for a couple of minutes?"
asked Peter, shouting at the top of his voice above the discordant
din.
There was no response.
The midshipman had lost consciousness.