to "Sick Bay" and of "out pipes" at nine o'clock. They talk of
"darkening the ship" when the blinds are pulled and the lights covered.
We arrived at Hull when it was dusk, and at the station was, among other
persons, Lady Nunburnholme, whose husband is the chief owner of the
Wilson Line of steamships, and who takes a deep interest in the
ambulance trains and the sailors' hospital in her town. No matter at
what hour one of the Royal Naval trains is due, Lady Nunburnholme is at
the depot, always eager to have a word with the men, and give them
cigarettes and cheer them up.
By error, that evening a clergyman or naval chaplain, who had been hurt
on a warship, was put in the coach with the men. The surgeon made the
discovery, and said he would have the padre moved into the officers'
quarters at the next stop.
"I'm a humbug," said the cheery pastor. "There's nothing wrong with me.
Just go ahead looking after the men."
Plymouth was to be the next stop. We were due there at half-past seven
o'clock the following morning. At midnight the chief surgeon walked
through the train to see that all was well, and he was attracted by a
man coughing. He directed that something be given to this patient.
"Don't want to have one man keep half a dozen awake needlessly," said
the surgeon.
Then there was an officer who could not go to sleep. He was a medical
case, suffering from rheumatism. But what kept him awake was the thought
that he might lose his ship. There was a sailor who had fallen on his
vessel, knocked four of his teeth out, and cut his head. Why he had to
go to "Sick Bay" for such a trifle was beyond him. In the dark hours of
the early morning one might have seen the faithful surgeon again going
through his train, speaking in whispers to those who lay awake, asking
them if there was anything they needed and what pain they had.
"I've got pains all over me, and me 'ead feels scorchin' with the
bangin' that's goin' on inside," said one man.
"That's a grumble to get a drink," said the surgeon, who told the man to
try to go to sleep.
Devonshire was the scene of gladsome sunshine when the train steamed
into the station, delivered certain patients, and picked up others for
another port. In his anxiety to get a truck out of the way to permit the
stretcher-bearers uninterrupted passage to the ambulances, a porter
tipped over six and a half dollars' worth of milk. The patients grinned
at this, and the Surgeon-General on the platform appeared to be sorry
that so much good milk had gone to waste.
The terminus of the train was reached at half-past seven in the evening.
There the coaches were cleared of all patients and the train split in
two to permit of traffic passing. The train-surgeon, having delivered
the valuables of the patients, walked with me to the naval barracks,
where for the first time in thirty-six hours he had a chance to really
rest.
"Chin-chin," said he, lifting his glass. "Another run over, and the
Germans have not come out yet for the real fight."
X. A TRIP IN A SUBMARINE
The man who craves excitement is apt to get his fill for a while after a
trip in a British submarine under the North Sea. He may dream of the
experience for many nights afterwards, and the lip of the conning-tower
well seems to get higher and higher until the water rushes over like an
incipient Niagara--then he awakens.
The wind was blowing about 30 knots when I boarded the mother ship of
the submarines in the English East Coast port. It was an unsettled sort
of morning, and just after I had walked over two narrow planks to the
under-sea craft, aboard which I was to make a cruise under the North
Sea, the sun shot forth a widening streak of blurred silver like a
searchlight on the prancing green-grey waves. With care, the two-striper
skipper gave his orders to get the submarine under way, and soon he
stuck her nose at the east. One felt the frost in the air, and fingers
grasping the canvas shield of the conning tower were benumbed.
Three men stood in line on the aft hatch while the submersible glided
through the port waters. Four other sailors were getting a last good
lungful of fine fresh sea air for'd. At the conning tower were the
commander, his helmsman, and a young lieutenant--the boss of the
torpedoes. Now and again another officer popped up his head through the
conning-tower well, and that opening to the boat's bowels appeared just
about large enough for his broad shoulders. The nose of the shark-like
craft passed through white-caps as steadily as a ship on a calm ocean.
"Hands for'd, sir," announced the junior lieutenant.
The commander mumbled an answer, and the men were ordered to close the
for'd hatches, and soon the iron doors were screwed down. The gas
engines shot off black smoke into the curdling wake of the vessel's twin
propellers, and as we surged along into the uninteresting sea the
skipper sang out to have the aft hatches shut. The well-disciplined
bluejackets instantly obeyed the order, and the iron slabs banged to,
and I knew that those men were busying themselves in their particular
work of seeing that everything was ready for submerging.
The commander of the submarine was an agile man, about 5 feet 7 inches
tall. His face looked tired, and there were lines about his eyes, which
were only for his ship. I do not think that he had the chance to give me
a look--a real look--all the time I was aboard. There was always
something which needed his attention. I found that the speed we were
making against the wind closed my eyes, for there is very little
protection on the conning tower of a submarine; and that alone might
have given the commander that tired look. But I gathered afterwards that
the eyes are strained a good deal in looking for enemy craft. There, in
the distance, was the port whence we had emerged, and we now were out on
the breast of the sea in war time. Two miles off our port bow was a grey
vessel, to which our skipper gave his attention for a while. She was a
British destroyer plunging through the water at 22 knots.
The sun had disappeared behind a bank of clouds, but there were still
streaks of blue in the sky. The commander shot his gaze aft, to
starboard, port, and before him. Although we were heading straight out
to sea, the skipper was ever on the alert.
"Motors ready?" asked the commander of the sub-lieutenant, whose head
showed up from the well after communicating with the engine-room chief
artificer.
"Motors ready, sir," was the answer, and the younger man wrung his cold
hands.
By that time England's coast was a hazy outline. But on we cut through
the waves until England disappeared, and soon after the real thrill
came--the thrill of going down under an angry ocean. The gas engines
were stopped, and the way on the craft was allowed to carry her a good
distance, following the order from the commander.
That officer looked around, and signalled to a British
destroyer--another of the warships ploughing the waters of the North
Sea. A sailor expert signalman used his arms as semaphores, and an
answer soon was received by our skipper.
On the engine-room telegraph of the submarine is a word that does not
figure on the apparatus of other types of warships: it is "Dive." The
commander told me that we were going down very soon. I observed that the
destroyer had turned around and was heading out to sea. We were almost
at a stop, when our skipper told me to get into the conning-tower well
and to be down far enough to give him room. It must be realised that
immediately after the order to submerge has been rung in the
engine-room the conning-tower hatch is closed. Hence the commander and
his helmsman have no time to lose when the submarine is going under, as
it takes forty-five seconds to submerge an under-sea craft, and at
times, if pressed, it can be accomplished in thirty seconds.
Up to that time I had not devoted much attention to the inside of the
conning-tower hatch, beyond glancing at the brass ladder. Soon I
discovered that there were two ladders, and that the distance to the
inside deck of the boat was about twice as great as I had imagined.
After I had taken my foot off the last rung of the ladder and stepped on
the chilled, wet canvas-covered iron deck, my head was in a whirl at the
sight of the bowels of brass and steel. The skipper had set the arrow at
"Dive," and we were going down and down--a motion which is hardly
perceptible to the layman.
The activity below and the intricate mechanism of the craft caused me to
think more of what the men were doing than of my own sensations. I
wondered how one man could learn it all, for the skipper must have an
intimate knowledge of all the complicated machinery of his vessel. There
were engines everywhere and little standing room--at least, that is how
it appeared on the first glance, and even afterwards it was clear that
no adipose person could hope to survive aboard a submarine.
No sooner had the engine-room received the order to submerge than the
captain followed his helmsman down the conning-tower hatch, and he lost
not a second in getting to the periscope--the eye of his vessel. Soon my
attention was arrested by the sight of two men sitting side by side
turning two large wheels. One kept his eye on a bubble and turned his
wheel to control the hydroplanes to keep the craft level, and the other
man's eyes also watched a bubble in a level. His share of the work was
to keep the vessel at the depth ordered by the commander.
Although I was deeply interested in everything that went on under the
sea in that craft, my eyes were continually on the captain, who looked
like a photographer about to take the picture of a wilful baby. The
skipper's face was concealed behind two black canvas wings of the
reflector, which keep the many electric lights aboard from interfering
with his view through the glass. I then noticed a door in the stern of
the craft--about amid-ships--a door which is closed on the sight of
danger. To me it looked like a reflection, but you soon find out that
you are looking at the engines of the submarine. There, four or five
men, ignoring whether they were under the water or on the surface, were
concentrated on their work. One mistake, and the submarine and its crew
are lost. Hence there is no inattention to duty. Finally, this door was
slammed to.
The air below is not much different to what it is when the vessel is on
the surface--or not noticeably different until the craft has been
submerged for several hours. It is then that the "bottles" or air tanks
are brought into play. I walked to the bows of the boat, where a giant
torpedo was greased and ready for the shutting of its compartment. The
air-tight tube was then locked down, and the missile was ready for its
victim. But, as I said, lured as you may be to gaze at the other parts
of the wonderful craft, you will find that your gaze comes back to the
captain--always at the periscope, hands on those brass bars that turn
the periscope, and eyes glued to the reflector.
"Lower periscope!" he orders. And then: "Raise periscope!" He gives
these orders with clearness; not surprising, as no command must be
misunderstood when you are 25 or 30 feet under the water.
"Lower periscope!"
A man in a corner, next to one who has charge of the gyroscopic compass,
turns a handle, and the greased steel cylinder sinks until the captain,
who had been stretched with toes tipped, now is on bended knees, his
hands extended to stop the periscope man from taking the "eye" further
down. The captain turns the periscope around, scanning the waters. At
his right, when the skipper is facing the bows, is another officer, with
his hand on the trigger of what looks like an upward-pointed pistol of
brass and steel. This officer waits for the command to send off the
torpedo.
"Lower foremost periscope into the well," ordered the captain. This
periscope was not in use and had not been above the surface. It is the
duplicate "eye," in case the other is out of order.
"Yes," said the captain, not looking at me, "she's mostly guts below.
Have a look at that destroyer. We are going to send a practice torpedo
at her, and she will pick it up and return it when we get back home."
The sleek, lean warship was knifing the waters at 22 knots. It was like
looking at a picture--a moving picture--and all was beautifully
distinct. Our commander consulted a card, decided the speed of the
warship, and then again propped his head against the reflector.
"Raise periscope," ordered the two-striper.
For the first time aboard the submarine, there was something akin to
silence, except for the swishing of engines and the continuous buzz of
other mechanism.
"Light to starboard," voiced the captain.
"Light to starboard," repeated the helmsman at the compass.
"Tube ready?" asked the commander, his head hidden between the black
flaps of the periscope.
"Tube ready, sir."
The officer at the trigger stood like a starter at a race, his finger on
the tongue that was to release the torpedo. It was just as it is in the
real moment of moments and a war craft is the target. The men at the two
wheels watched their dials and their bubbles, and the helmsman had his
nose on the needle. The commander, the gold braid on his cuffs streaked
with oil and rust, then had but one thought in his mind--to hit the
target. He looked neither to right nor left but was still at the
periscope. The warship was there. We were there, and one could imagine
the tiny periscope just above the water. The situation was tense, even
if the vessel to be fired at was not an enemy craft.
"Fire!" snapped the captain.
It was no order for men to spring "over the top," no battle-cry that was
heard by the enemy, but the word under the water that is the order for
the deadly destroyer to be released and speed on its way to the
unsuspecting craft. Practice torpedo or not, when under the waves of the
North Sea the word works up a dramatic situation hard to equal. The
other officers and men are interested, and they told me that never does
the word "Fire" fail to stir the soul of everybody aboard. Though the
effect is heightened by the knowledge that a great vessel is the target
and has been bored in twain, the interest is still thrilling when the
submarine is practising. With a shot at the enemy there is, of course,
the explosion to dread. If the submarine does not get away far enough,
the explosion of the torpedo may be the cause of extinguishing all
lights aboard the submarine, and lamps have then to be used.
There was a tiger-like growl or "g-r-rh" of anger as the tube sent out
the greased steel complicated missile, and outside I pictured the white
wake that streaked in the direction of the warship. It was not visible
from the periscope, which a second after the signal to fire had been
brought down under the surface. The comparative stillness was gone, and
the inside of the submarine seemed to have awakened from a doze. There
was all bustle and hurry around me. The captain shot a look at the
gyroscopic compass and gave orders for the motors to go ahead, and for
half an hour the submarine pushed about under the surface. Then the
commander had the periscope raised, and on the distant horizon I made
out the destroyer--a tiny thing even in the glass of the magnifying lens
of the under-sea boat's "eye."
My feet were numbed with cold as I walked for'd and looked at the empty
tube. These torpedoes cost L500 (two thousand, five hundred dollars),
and in war time they are all set to sink if they fail to hit the target;
set to sink because they might be used by the enemy or get in our own
way.
The next thrilling moment came when the commander decided to bring his
craft to the surface.
"Come to surface and blow external tanks!" ordered the two-striper.
"Open five, six, seven, eight, to blow!"
The round, white perforated lungs of the submarine sucked in the air in
the craft.
"Open one, two, three, four, to blow," came from the skipper.
"One, two, three, four, to blow," I heard repeated.
I felt no perceptible motion of ascending; but those lungs were working
hard, which could be learned by placing your hand over them. The captain
shot a glance at the dial, which told him how far up his vessel had
gone, and then mounted the conning-hatch ladder, and soon one observed a
spot of daylight. A sea washed over the submarine, filling the
commander's boots with water. He was followed by a sailor, who quickly
attached the lowered sailcloth bridge to the rails of the conning tower.
Then the captain's expert and watchful eye caught bubbles coming from
one of the tanks.
"Close one!" he shouted down the hatch.
"Close one," repeated the sub-lieutenant.
"Two, five, and seven," came from the voice outside, and so on, until
soon all the tanks had pumped out their water and were filled with air;
and, for the sake of accuracy, each order was sounded again below.
"Bring her around to north," said the commander.
When we submerged it had been a chilly day, with a peep of the sun every
now and again. The weather had changed since we left our berth under the
sea. The sky was overcast, and snow was falling. And this change in the
weather had taken place while the captain had been accomplishing one of
Jules Verne's dreams.
We sped farther out to sea; this time on the _qui vive_ for enemy craft.
But the enemy is careful not to give the British submarine much of a
chance at his warships, only sneaking out occasionally under cover of
darkness with a couple of destroyers. Nevertheless, John Bull's diving
boats are ever on the alert; and the man with whom I went under the
North Sea had performed deeds of daring which never involved the sinking
of a neutral vessel or of endangering the life of a non-belligerent.
It was the time for luncheon. Luncheon! You get an idea that the life
aboard a submarine is not all sunshine and white uniforms when you see
the berth for the commander and his chief officer. They are just a
couple of shelves, and are not used very often at that. It was
explained to me that when you are running a submarine you do not go in
much for sleep. Luncheon consisted of a cup of coffee and a piece of
canned beef on a stale slice of bread. Tinned food is about all that can
be used aboard a submarine. It does not take up much room, and it
requires little in the way of cooking utensils. We were still having our
luncheon below when we dived again, so for the first time in my life I
found myself having a meal under the sea.
It was hours afterwards that we slipped into the darkened harbour and
found the mother ship, where the officers enjoy some of the real
comforts of life.
"Have a Pandora cocktail?" asked my captain.
We imbibed joyfully. The commander then changed his clothes, and we sat
down to dinner--a late dinner, most of the other members of the mess
having finished half an hour before.
And if you ask me about sensations while under the water, again I must
confess that I was too busy looking and learning to experience anything
but a fear that I might omit something of importance during the time the
captain was getting ready for his target. Being under the sea, however,
gave me a thrill felt long afterwards, and I left knowing something of
the hardships that England's sea dogs suffer while guarding their island
kingdom.
XI. LIFE IN A LIGHTHOUSE
The old man led the way to the sturdy stone structure on top of which
were the great horns which sound the warning in foggy weather to ships
at sea. He was proud of the lighthouse, of which he was the principal
keeper; and just before he started to explain to me the wonders of the
compressed-air engines, he remarked:--
"First, you must know that a lighthouse-keeper's job is to watch for a
fog."
"What's your name?" I asked. He was the first real lighthouse-keeper I
had met.
The lighthouseman looked at me and then at one of the coast-watchers. He
was a slender man of about sixty years, who, I had been told, was
enjoying the work he had set out to do long, long before there was a
thought of a great war.
"T. G. Cutting," he replied, "the P.K. here."
It was on the western Cornish coast, where, as in other places in and
off English shores, the lighthouses, war or no war, from sunset to
sunrise cut the darkness with their long beams of whiteness and, when
necessary, sound the foghorn. You do not see any young men who are not
in khaki or navy blue, and the old men are wonders, with their
binoculars and telescopes. Mr. Cutting had been within sound of the sea
ever since he was born. First, he had seen service on a lighthouse on
the rocks, as they say, and from the rocks he graduated to a land job,
and thence back to the rocks, and again on to the land. We read stories
of the lighthouse-keeper; but little is written on the modern man of
this species. Mr. Cutting is not accustomed to the glare of the city's
lights, but he knows the glare of a lighthouse-lantern and all the
various wonders of the work.
Inside the annex to the lighthouse were the duplicate engines for
filling tanks with compressed air. This air is used for blowing the
foghorns, and when they sound everybody in the locality knows it.
"Enough air is stored in those tanks," declared Mr. Cutting, "to keep
the foghorns going for twenty minutes. That gives us time to get the
engines running."
He went into details of the engines, showing that he knew them by heart,
and I could almost imagine the blurring, deafening sound which for
seven seconds rent the air through the roar of winds every minute and a
half.
"Fog, as you know, is the dread of every sea captain," said Mr. Cutting.
"Out yonder you see the 'Three Stone Orr Rocks.' This is a dangerous bit
of scenery in foggy weather. When we have a fog, two men are on duty;
one if it is clear."
We then went to the lighthouse tower, which stands nearly 200 feet above
high water. To the right, on entering that building, was a blacksmith's
shop, with an anvil, forge, and various implements. This forge is
occasionally needed to make repairs, spare parts, and accessories of the
engines of the lighthouse. To the right, in a corridor, were
speaking-tubes.
"Those tubes go to the bedside of every man employed here," said Mr.
Cutting. "We have only to blow, and in a few minutes he comes up to the
lighthouse. Our houses are over there, in the same structure as the
tower. They are practically the lower portion of the main building."
He conducted the way up the narrow, winding stairs. At the head of the
first flight I saw a green-covered book, in which every man on watch
makes his entry of the weather, the velocity of the wind, and so forth.
"Many a man's word has been corrected by that book," said the P.K. "And
here's the book for privileged visitors, for nobody comes here without
the proper credentials."
There were names of famous persons inscribed in the book, which was kept
as neatly and cleanly as everything else in the place.
"Now we'll go up to the lantern," said the old man. Old, but lithe,
strong, and keen-eyed. He is particularly fond of this lantern, and was
remarkably lucid in explaining everything concerning the working of it.
"Does the sea ever come up as high as this?" I asked.
"We get the spray, and that is all," answered the P.K. "It's dirty
weather when that happens. But the water usually has spent its force
when it reaches this height."
The exterior windows of the lantern were diamond shaped and of plate
glass. In the middle of the lantern was the large concentric-ringed
glass of great magnifying power.
"You can turn it round with your little finger," said the P.K. "That's
because it floats in a mercury bath. And in turning that you are moving
four tons. When the lantern is lighted, it shows dark for seven and a
half seconds, then two sets of four flashes, making a complete
revolution every half-minute. They can see the light at sea on a clear
night for nineteen miles. The light is worked by vaporised oil. The
compressed air drives the oil to the lantern, up through that burner in
a hole hardly big enough to take a pin point. It is nearly half a
million candle-power. This type of light is considered even better than
electricity. In the old-style oil-lights they burned five quarts in the
same time that this one consumes a pint with better results."
The actual burner of the lantern is disappointing, as one expects to see
a giant burner. Really, it is only about twice the size of the average
household one.