[Illustration: cover art]
The Thick of the Fray
at Zeebrugge
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
LIEUT. R.A.F.
No boy alive will be able to peruse Mr. Westerman's pages
without a quickening of his pulses."--Outlook.
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.
The Dispatch-Riders: The Adventures of Two British
Motor-cyclists with the Belgian Forces.
The Sea-girt Fortress: A Story of Heligoland.
Rounding up the Raider: A Naval Story of the Great
War.
The Fight for Constantinople: A Tale of the Gallipoli
Peninsula.
Captured at Tripoli: A Tale of Adventure.
The Quest of the "Golden Hope": A Seventeenth-
century Story of Adventure.
A Lad of Grit: A Story of Restoration Times.
LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LTD.. 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.
[Illustration: THE U-BOAT DIVED SO ABRUPTLY THAT HER RUDDERS AND
TWIN-SCREWS WERE CLEAR OF THE WATER (Frontispiece)]
The Thick of the Fray
at Zeebrugge
April, 1918
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
Author of "Winning His Wings"
"With Beatty off Jutland"
"The Submarine Hunters"
&c. &c.
_Illustrated by W. Edward Wigfull_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
Contents
CHAP.
I. BOUND NORTH
II. STRAFED
III. COUNT OTTO
IV. TORPEDOED
V. IN THE WHALER
VI. A PRISONER OF WAR
VII. M.-L. 4452
VIII. ON PATROL
IX. AT ZEEBRUGGE
X. PREPARATIONS
XI. THE LONE AIR-RAIDER
XII. ST. GEORGE'S EVE
XIII. THE ATTACK ON THE MOLE
XIV. THE NIGHT OF NIGHTS
XV. THE PASSING OF M.-L. 4452
XVI. THE RETURN FROM ZEEBRUGGE
XVII. "GOOD OLD 'VINDICTIVE'!"
XVIII. OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH
XIX. THE GREAT SURRENDER
Illustrations
THE U-BOAT DIVED SO ABRUPTLY THAT HER RUDDERS
AND TWIN-SCREWS WERE CLEAR OF THE WATER
Frontispiece
"ENGLISCH OFFIZIER-PIG!" HE SHOUTED. "WE YOU
TAKE PRISONER"
THE BIPLANE HAD GOT INTO A SPINNING NOSE-DIVE
THE PILOT THREW A BOMB FULL IN THE FACE OF A
PRUSSIAN UNTER-LEUTNANT
"SHE'S GOING, LADS!" SHOUTED BRANSCOMBE
THE THICK OF THE
FRAY AT ZEEBRUGGE
CHAPTER I
Bound North
"Wonder if she'll do it in time," thought Sub-lieutenant Alec Seton,
R.N., as he stolidly paced the stone-paved platform. For the
twentieth time in the last two hours he had consulted his wristlet
watch and compared it with the smoke-begrimed station clock. "A
proper lash-up if she doesn't."
It was 1.40 a.m. on a certain Monday in March of the year of grace
1918. Seton, warned by telegram to rejoin his ship, H.M. Torpedo-boat
Destroyer _Bolero_, had been handicapped by reason of the Sunday
train service. Due to report at Rosyth at 10 a.m. he found himself at
midnight held up at Leeds with the unpleasant prospect of having to
wait until 1.50 a.m. before the mail train took him on to Edinburgh.
Seton had been spending part of a well-earned spell of leave at his
parents' house in the Peak District. An urgent message demanded his
recall before half the period of leave had expired, which was no
unusual occurrence in war-time. What was exasperating was the fact
that the wire had been delivered at 6 p.m. on Sunday, and even by
rushing off and catching the first available train Alec found, on
perusing the time-table and consulting various railway officials,
that it would be impossible to arrive at Edinburgh before twenty
minutes minutes to eight on Monday morning. That left, only a little
more than two hours to continue his journey to Inverkeithing and then
on to Rosyth. Even then he had no idea where the _Bolero_ was lying,
whether she was alongside the jetty or on moorings out on the Forth.
To say the least it was "cutting things a bit fine", but it was a
point of honour that, if humanly possible, Seton should report
himself on board at the hour specified.
"An' we were going into dock for eighteen days for refit," mused the
Sub. "Wonder what's butted in to upset things? Some stunt over the
other side, or only another sea-trip out and home again, without
catching sight of a measly Hun. By Jove, I'm hungry. I'm experiencing
an unpleasant feeling in a certain sector of the front."
Vainly he regretted that on his hasty departure he had omitted to
provide himself with refreshment. Counting on finding a
restaurant-car he had been disappointed; while, on arriving at Leeds,
he found it impossible at that hour to get a meal at an hotel. The
sight of half a dozen Tommies in full field-kit emerging from a
Y.M.C.A. refreshment-room, and dilating upon the excellence of the
hot coffee and cakes, filled him with envious desires, which,
however, did little to satisfy the cravings of the inner man.
"Ah, I've no belt to tighten," he soliloquized grimly. "Six or seven
more hours to go, and not a chance of a snack. Hallo, what's this?
Out of tobacco, too, by Jove." Very ruefully Alec surveyed his worn
and trusted pouch. Only a pinch of dried dust remained.
"The last straw," he muttered. "Must grin and bear it, I suppose. I'd
rather be keeping middle watch somewhere in the North Sea."
A truck, propelled by an undersized man, came into view. The truck
was surmounted by a green box with glass panels and brass rails. From
a small funnel steam was issuing. Already half a dozen belated
passengers were crowding round the new arrival.
"A perambulating coffee-stall," declared Alec. "My luck's turned."
Two minutes later he was sampling the wares of the itinerant vendor.
The result was not only disappointing but repugnant, for the
beverage, termed coffee by the man presiding over the stall, bore a
strong resemblance to greasy water, while the cake was more like
sawdust than war-bread at its worst.
Disgustedly Alec left his purchase practically untouched, and resumed
his tedious beat up and down the draughty platform, until the
long-expected night mail train pulled up at the station.
Through the steam-laden atmosphere Alec made his way, trying to find
an unoccupied compartment. Foiled in this direction he edged along
the corridor until he almost cannoned into a uniformed attendant.
"All sleeping compartments engaged, sir," replied the man; "but I'll
find you a smoker with only one other passenger. This way, sir."
He threw open the blind-drawn sliding door, and switched on one of
the four electric lights. One of the seats was unoccupied. On the
other was stretched a somnolent figure almost completely enveloped in
a large fawn rug, bedizened with the Railway Company's monogram. The
sleeper's face was turned towards the partition. On the rack overhead
were two weather-beaten portmanteaux, and a naval cap with a
tarnished R.N.V.R. badge.
Alec slipped half-a-crown into the attendant's hand.
"No thanks," he replied in answer to the man's inquiry; "I'll be
quite comfortable in the circs. Sorry there isn't a tobacco-stall on
the train."
He stowed his gear to his satisfaction, patted his empty
tobacco-pouch to make sure for the fifth time that it was empty, and
then contemplated his soundly-sleeping companion.
"Since it seems that I've a mouldy messmate," he soliloquized, "the
best that I can do is to follow his example and turn in."
Switching off the solitary light Alec stretched himself upon the
seat, using his great-coat as a pillow. He was asleep before the
train left Leeds.
Beyond a slight return to wakefulness as the train pulled up at
Carlisle, Alec slept soundly until the first gleam of dawn began to
steal through the carriage windows.
He glanced at his wristlet watch. It was half-past five. Sitting up
he stretched his cramped limbs.
"By Jove, I am hungry," he muttered. "Won't I make up for it when I
get aboard."
Almost the next moment all sense of physical discomfort vanished, as
he caught sight of the wonderful vista that met his view. The train
was climbing the steep ascent of the hills of Roxburgh. Snow lay deep
upon the ground, while the peaks were only partly visible in the grey
morning mists. Alec had seen many varieties of scenery in widely
different parts of the world, but, as an admirer of nature, he was
never tired of "viewing the land".
"Magnificent!" he murmured enthusiastically. "It's worth a night in
the train. I've seen the Peak of Teneriffe at sunrise, but our
country takes a lot of beating."
A swirling cloud of steam beat against the window pane, momentarily
obscuring the outlook. Before it cleared Alec was astonished to hear
his name shouted in boisterous tones.
"Alec Seton, by all the powers! What, in the name of all that's
wonderful, brings you here?"
Seton's "mouldy messmate" was sitting up and rubbing his eyes--a
bronzed, shock-headed youth, who looked, despite his uniform, little
more than a schoolboy. His features expanded into a broad grin of
whole-hearted delight as he extended a large, horny hand.
For a brief instant Alec was at a loss to recognize his
fellow-traveller, then--
"Branscombe, my festive buccaneer."
Guy Branscombe, Sub-lieutenant, R.N.V.R., was one of those war-time
productions whose existence, as members of the "band of brothers"
under the White Ensign, has been amply justified. He had been a
candidate for Osborne, but had failed to satisfy the examiners. Now,
taking advantage of his undoubted skill as an amateur yachtsman, he
was doing good service both in deep-sea and coastal navigation. These
two branches are widely distinct. Generally speaking, officers of the
"pukka" navy are indifferent navigators in coastal waters. Inside the
"five fathom line" they often lack the confidence that the skilled
amateur possesses. Thus the Admiralty soon found the need to accept
the offers of British yachtsmen to take command of the shoal of
"M.-L.'s"--otherwise Coastal Motor-Launches--the war record of which
showed that official confidence had not been misplaced.
In the early days of the war the newly-constituted Motor-Boat Reserve
was frequently a subject for ridicule. "Harry Tate's Navy", as it was
called, figured in cheap comic papers, and was spoken of jestingly by
misinformed critics. True, there were incompetents, who managed to
obtain temporary commissions on the strength of baneful influence;
but these were soon weeded out, and the zealous, hard-working men
remained to "carry on". For the first three years of war the M.-L.'s
were rarely if ever in the limelight. Not that they wanted to be;
they were content to work whole-heartedly as units of the Great
Silent Navy, until even official reticence and the muzzle of the
Press Censor failed to hide from public notice the stirring deeds of
the officers and men of the puny but doughty M.-L.'s.
"I'm taking over M.-L. 4452," explained Branscombe, when the two men
had settled down to the contents of a Thermos and biscuits--for the
R.N.V.R. man had taken the precaution to fortify himself amply
against the discomforts of long railway journeys. "She's a brand-new
hooker, just handed over at Dumbarton by the contractors. We're bound
south for----" He hesitated. Alec looked at him inquiringly and
raised his eyebrows.
"Dover?" asked the R.N. sub.
"Yes--Dover," replied Guy.
"Lucky blighter," rejoined Seton "Wish I had the chance. There's
always something doing in the 'Wet Triangle'. Up here with the Grand
Fleet it's the usual out-and-in stunt, with no chance of tumbling
across anything more than a Fritz or a mine. Absolute boredom, and
all because the Huns won't come out. Now at Dover--any stunt on?"
"Can't say, old man," replied Branscombe with perfect truth. As a
matter of fact the R.N.V.R. officer was "in the know". Great
operations, as to which all concerned were bound to secrecy, were
impending; the risk was great, and the chance of honour
correspondingly so; and since success depended upon a sphinx-like
silence the secret was being well kept. Branscombe even knew of a
case in which two life-long chums were shipmates for three weeks, and
although each was detailed off for duty in the forthcoming operations
neither hinted to the other that it was his luck to be chosen for the
stunt.
The conversation turned into other channels, talking "shop" being
tabooed as far as possible, and punctually to time the two chums
found themselves on Waverley Station platform with ten minutes to
wait for the train that was to take them to their
destination--Inverkeithing and Rosyth.