M.-L. 4452
"And the run across to Ostend?" inquired Sub-lieutenant Guy
Branscombe of M.-L. 4452.
"A wash-out," replied his superior officer, Lieutenant Frank
Farnborough.
Branscombe expressed no surprise at the information. During the war
there were innumerable instances of orders being given, of plans
carefully laid, and preparations made sometimes for weeks in advance,
then, at the last hour, they would be countermanded. In Service
parlance the abandonment of any particular project is generally
referred to as a "wash-out".
M.-L. 4452 was lying in the outer harbour of Ramsgate. It was dead
low water, but sufficient for the M.-L. to lie afloat alongside the
eastern arm of the stone pier that towered twenty-five to thirty feet
above the deck of the trim little craft.
She had had a quick, uneventful run round from the Firth of Forth,
and upon reporting at Dover had been ordered to lie in Ramsgate
Harbour, owing to certain activities in progress at the former base.
It was on the cards that M.-L. 4452, in company with five sister
ships, was to take part in important operations off the Belgian
coast--operations requiring courage and discretion, and far from
being devoid of great risk to life and limb.
For her size the M.-L. was a comfortable packet. True, she rolled
heavily in a seaway and was unhandy on her helm when running at slow
speed. Built of wood and equipped with two powerful eight-cylinder
motors, she could attain a speed of twenty-six knots.
For'ard she carried a 3-inch quick-firer. In the wake of the
gun-mounting rose the wheel-house, surmounted by a small but powerful
searchlight. Her single mast supported a complex array of wireless
gear and a cross-yard with necessary signalling halyards. On the
slightly raised deck-house was a dinghy in chocks, the davits being
swung inboard. The boat was made of thin sheet iron, with water-tight
compartments fore and aft and was sufficiently light to enable two
hands to haul her up and down a beach. Judging by the dents and
bulges in the dinghy's sides she had already been called upon to do
useful work.
Right aft fluttered the White Ensign, an emblem under which few if
any, of the motor-boat officers ever dreamt of sailing prior to the
eventful August, 1914.
On either side and slightly in advance of the ensign staff, M.-L.
4452, like a hornet, carried her sting in her tail; for here were two
powerful depth charges, capable of shattering the plating of a U-boat
within a radius of fifty or sixty yards from the source of the
explosion.
Below, the M.-L. was provided with ample accommodation--far more than
the casual outside observer would give her credit for.
The crew, consisting of seven hands, were berthed for'ard. Then came
the store rooms and wireless and hydrophone rooms. Abaft were the
galleys, the ward-room one opening into the officers' living
quarters.
The ward-room was a picture of cosiness. The M.-L.'s skipper had seen
to that, for he had been sufficiently long in the Service to know the
ropes. A few gallons of white enamel, drawn from the dockyard store,
had worked wonders on the walls and ceiling of the ward-room, while
the beams and timbers had been painted a dark brown to represent oak.
The result was that the place resembled the interior of an
old-fashioned half-timbered house, while, to carry out the scheme,
the electric lamps were encased in cardboard, cut in the fashion of
eighteenth-century lanterns.
Opening out of the ward-room were the two-bunked sleeping quarters
for the officers, also enamelled tastefully and effectively. At the
present time these were in a somewhat disordered state, oilskins,
sea-boots, and pilotcoats dumped promiscuously, bearing a silent
testimony to the fact that M.-L. 4452 had encountered heavy weather
in the Straits of Dover.
Frank Farnborough, lieutenant and skipper of the M.-L., was a tall,
slimly-built man of twenty-five. In civil life he was a consulting
engineer, who was just beginning to make a name for himself when war
broke out. His chief pastime was yachting, and in his little
weatherly nine-ton yawl he had visited and was well acquainted with
every port and haven between the Humber and the Lizard, and had a
nodding acquaintance with the Dutch and Belgian coast and that of
France from Dunkirk to Brest.
On the formation of the Motor Boat Reserve he had joined on as an
ordinary deckhand, but it was not long before his experience and
ability gained him a commission.
His sub, Guy Branscombe, has already been introduced.
Every man of the crew was an amateur yachtsman. In private life they
were respectively barrister, mining engineer, Manchester merchant,
two ex-public schoolboys, a stockbroker, and a bank clerk. The
barrister, senior in point of age, was ship's cook, he having
voluntarily taken on the job, and, considering it was doubtful
whether he ever made even a cup of tea for himself prior to 1914, he
did remarkably well.
The discipline on board would have turned the hair of a pukka R.N.
officer grey; but still there was discipline of sorts. They had been
shipmates since 1916, turning over from another M.-L., that had
perished gloriously in an endeavour to assist a torpedoed liner, when
4452 was received from the contractors.
Altogether they were a jovial, hard-working band of comrades. The men
had as much yachting as they wanted, summer and winter alike, with
the excitement of hunting Fritz or the chance of bumping on a
drifting mine thrown in. Yet, far from being fed-up, for they
realized that life on an M.-L. was infinitely preferable to
foot-slogging in the infantry, their zest was enhanced rather than
dimmed.
Only a few minutes before the skipper's return, Branscombe had been
talking with Able Seaman Brown, R.N.V.R., and stockbroker.
"As a matter of fact, sir," remarked Brown, "I'm seriously thinking
that after the war--if the war is ever going to end--I'll buy an
M.-L. There'll be hundreds on the market and I guess the Admiralty
will be lucky if they get 300 pounds a piece for them."
"And what then?" asked the Sub. "You may be a budding millionaire,
but no man in ordinary circumstances could afford to run one of these
hookers."
"That's where you are mistaken, sir, I fancy," replied A. B. Brown.
"These packets will be purchasable after the war for a matter of a few
hundred pounds. I'd take out the engines and sell them. They'd come
in handy for electric light plant for a country house or something of
that sort. Then I'd get a single 40-60 H.P. Kelvin motor, which uses
paraffin instead of petrol, and couple up the twin screws. That's my
little castle in the air for after the war, sir."
"Tea ready?" enquired the skipper. "No? Well, there's time to give
the dogs a run ashore."
He eyed the twenty-five foot vertical ladder somewhat dubiously. It
was strong enough, but a considerable portion towards the lower end
was slippery with seaweed and slime. Then he whistled to two large
sheep-dogs who were coiled up in the stern sheets of the dinghy.
Peter and Paul were recognized members of M.-L. 4452's complement.
They belonged to Frank Farnborough but had been adopted by every
individual on board. Both animals had been violently seasick on the
first occasion when they put to sea, but from that time onwards, blow
high or blow low, they behaved like seasoned sons of the sea.
"Send 'em up in a bowline," suggested Branscombe.
"Hardly good enough," objected the Lieutenant. "I'll carry them up,
one at a time."
Placing Peter on his back and holding on to one paw, Farnborough
began his somewhat hazardous climb. All went well for the first half,
and then a catastrophe occurred. It was owing to a large ginger cat
that was prowling along the very edge of the quay. Peter spotted her,
and began barking. The feline arched her back and spat defiance. This
insult was more than the sheep-dog could stand. He began to struggle
furiously. His master's admonition to "shut up" was ignored. The next
instant Farnborough's feet slipped on the slimy rung, and, hampered
by the heavy animal, he fell upon the deck.
It was a drop of about twelve feet, but sufficient to make the
Lieutenant writhe. His right ankle was badly sprained, while, to make
matters worse, he had struck his back against the edge of the raised
cabin-top. Peter, unhurt, but genuinely concerned, began to lick his
master's hand.
"Nothing much," declared Farnborough in answer to Branscombe's
inquiry. "Bit of a twist to my ankle, that's all. Lucky thing old
Peter wasn't hurt, the silly old ass!"
One of the men, taking each dog in turn under his arm, made the
ascent in safety, and the now docile animals went off to visit a
great friend--the cook at the Naval Base Canteen.
"I'll have to turn in for half an hour or so," declared Farnborough.
"My ankle is giving me socks. It'll be all right soon. What? Go to
the medico for a little thing like that? No, thanks; besides, we are
under orders to sail at eight."
"Not the stunt?" asked Branscombe.
"No, laddie; I said it was a wash-out," replied the skipper. "It's
coming off all in good time; can take your affidavit on that. . . .
By Jove! that was a bit of a twister," he added with a wry smile as
he carefully lowered himself down the steep companion ladder to the
ward-room. "Quite all right, though. A little embrocation will soon
set matters right."
Having laid himself on his bunk, Farnborough drew an envelope from
the inside breast-coat pocket of his monkey-jacket.
"Here you are!" he remarked, giving his sub the contents of the
envelope. "Usual thing. You might see that the dogs are on board
before we start. I'll get you to take the old hooker out, old man."
Guy Branscombe scanned the typewritten orders. They were marked
"Confidential", which is a word that in Service matters may mean a
lot, or nothing. Often orders of the most trivial character are so
marked, possibly by a minor official who wishes to magnify the
importance of his particular work. Consequently, there is a tendency
to under-estimate the significance of the word "Confidential". It is
another instance of "Familiarity breeds contempt".
However, in this case the orders were important. M.-L.'s 4452, 4453,
4454, and 4455 were to proceed on patrol between certain positions. A
reference to the chart showed that the limits were from a point six
miles north-west of the mouth of the Scheldt to a point five miles
due north (true) of the Sandettie Bank Lightship. Three large
destroyers from the Dover patrol were to act as covering vessels,
while a couple of monitors, each armed with a single 17-inch gun,
were to keep Fritz on thorns by lobbing a few shells with uncanny
accuracy upon the fortifications of Zeebrugge.
The special task of the M.-L.'s was to keep a look-out for a squadron
of bombing aeroplanes, which were engaged in liberally plastering the
Mole and canal locks of Zeebrugge with tons of high explosives.
Should a seaplane become disabled and be compelled to alight on the
sea, then the handy little craft would speed to the rescue, in spite
of the fact that they were within range of the long-distance German
guns on the Belgian coast.
"All plain sailing?" asked Farnborough. "Good! If you'll take her
out, and call me at eight bells, I'll be eternally grateful to you.
So the old hooker's going to have her baptism of fire."