On Patrol
Punctually to the appointed minute, M.-L. 4452 cast off and proceeded
seaward. Her sister ships had preceded her, and were running in
single column line ahead. It was a pitch-dark night. The sea was as
smooth as the proverbial mill-pond. Shoreward the land was enshrouded
in darkness, not a light being visible. Viewed from a short distance,
the Kentish coast, normally defined by lines of twinkling lights, but
now looming faintly against the sombre sky, looked more like a
desolate land than a populous corner of England, literally linked by
a chain of seaside towns.
The M.-L.'s were under way without navigation lights, only a small
lamp astern of each enabling those following to keep station. The
little craft were cleared for action, for it had been known that
hostile torpedo-boats had approached within a few miles of the port
of Dover.
Branscombe, standing by the quarter-master in the little wheel-house,
fully realized the danger of the operation. He revelled in it,
notwithstanding the fact that the M.-L.'s were passing over one of
the most heavily-mined portions of the sea adjoining the British
Isles. A few fathoms beneath the boat's keel were mines in hundreds,
that, in conjunction with nets and other elaborate devices, formed an
impregnable barrier to the passage of German U-boats. As long as the
mines remained anchored and submerged they were dangerous only to the
type of craft they were intended to destroy; but after the heavy blow
of the last few days there was a possibility, nay, a probability,
that some would break adrift and float on the surface, a menace to
those who had lawful business upon the waters, a prospect sufficient
to stimulate the imagination--if not to get on the nerves--of the
hardiest mariner.
It was almost on this very spot twelve months previously that
Branscombe had ordered the gun's crew to open fire at what he took to
be a periscope, but what, on closer examination, proved to be a
derelict boat-hook; while on another occasion the Sub, inexperienced
in those days, saw a large dark object slither under the water. To
his excited imagination it could be nothing less than a U-boat,
hurriedly diving to escape detection. Ordering full-speed ahead,
Branscombe steered straight for the rippling swell, and detonated a
depth charge on the spot where the submarine had vanished. A badly
mutilated porpoise came up in the cascade of foam.
The Sub was badly chipped for some considerable time over the affair,
but it was excusable. The M.-L.'s motto is to hit and hit hard at
anything of a suspicious nature. Explanations, if necessary, can
follow later, but one has to take no chances with Fritz and all his
dirty tricks.
It speaks well for the courageous temperament of the British sailor
that he has stuck it for more than four years, living in momentary
danger of being blown sky-high by an unseen mine or by a torpedo from
a lurking foe, and yet is able to laugh and joke unrestrainedly with
his comrades, and to take the keenest interest in sport. During the
whole period of the war, the British navy faced dangers and thrived;
while the Huns, having no traditions to hold up, and running little
risk, as they rarely put to sea beyond the shelter of their own
minefields, were slowly but surely drifting to moral suicide that
culminated in mutiny and the disgraceful surrender of Germany's
fleet.
In spite of the unrestricted U-boat campaign, there was a constant
stream of merchantmen passing round the Forelands to and from London
River. Those outward bound were making for the Downs, there to await
escort to the convoy. All these ships, fantastically camouflaged and
steaming without lights, made navigation doubly difficult, and it was
not until North Foreland was several miles astern and the M.-L. out
of the recognized sailing routes that Branscombe began to feel more
at ease.
"Eight bells, sir," reported Anderson, wireless man, and ex-bank
clerk.
Being in the war zone, and at night, the actual striking on the
ship's bell was dispensed with.
"Very good," replied the Sub, and turning to another man he asked him
to inform the Captain.
In five minutes the man returned.
"I've been trying to get the skipper on deck, sir," he reported, "but
I'm afraid it's no use. It's not only his ankle that's causing
trouble but his back is rather badly bruised. Moving about after
lying down has made matters worse."
Guy picked up a signal pad and wrote a message, telling Farnborough
not to worry but to take things quietly; meanwhile, he (Branscombe)
would carry on, reporting anything unusual.
It was against regulations for both officers to leave the deck at the
same time; hence Guy had to send down a chit. This done he prepared
for at least a twenty-four hours' "trick".
Rapidly the booming of the heavy guns grew louder and louder. The air
trembled under the terrific reverberations of the contesting
ordnance, for Fritz was not backward in replying to the fire of the
British monitors.
Peter and Paul, to whose sensitive nerves the continuous concussions
did not appeal at all, had abandoned their post in the dinghy, and
had retired to the comparative shelter of the after sleeping-cabin.
The fact that the ladder was almost vertical and seven feet in height
did not trouble them. They merely settled the matter by jumping,
alighting on Branscombe's bed, where they made themselves as
comfortable as possible in the distressing circumstances.
Presently dense masses of smoke on the horizon betokened the presence
of the monitors. Each, her presence screened by artificial fog
emitted from the attendant destroyers, was firing with her 17-inch
gun at extreme elevation, dropping tons of H.E. shells upon an
invisible target, while seaplanes, hovering overhead, recorded by
means of wireless the result of each discharge.
Within a mile of the unwieldy floating batteries the M.-L. altered
course, keeping parallel to the invisible shore. It was an inspiring
scene. In the rifts of the smoke-screen could be discerned the tripod
masts, enormous top-hamper and up-trained guns of the monitors. With
every shot the vessels heeled, until, with the return list, their
gigantic "blisters" or anti-torpedo devices were exposed above the
oily surface of the calm sea.
It was by no means a one-sided game. Projectiles were "straddling"
the monitors, some falling hundreds of yards beyond their objective,
and hurling columns of foam high into the air, as they ricochetted
three or four times before finally plunging to the bed of the North
Sea.
The whine of a high-velocity shell, as it passed a few feet above the
wheel-house of M.-L. 4452, gave Branscombe warning that he, too, was
under shell fire. A direct hit with one of those monsters would mean
utter annihilation to the wooden hull of the M.-L. and to her crew as
well. Nevertheless the little flotilla had to "carry on". Orders to
patrol on a certain course had to be implicitly obeyed. The "small
fry" under the White Ensign had to take similar and often greater
risk than their huge and powerfully armed and protected sisters.
Up and down the limits of their patrol the little M.-L.'s carried on.
No. 4453, always the unlucky one, was struck by a ricochetting shell.
Fortunately the missile did not explode, nor did it detonate the
depth charges stowed astern; but the impact played havoc with the
ward-room, completely demolishing the roof and knocking two gaping
holes in the raised sides. Well it was that her crew were at action
stations, for not a man received as much as a scratch.
At the pre-arranged hour the monitors "packed up". Lowering the
muzzles of their guns and bringing the weapons in a fore-and-aft
position, they steamed slowly out of range under cover of a really
colossal smoke-screen. For nearly twenty minutes the Huns liberally
"watered" the spot where the bombarding force had been, until their
observation balloons--for they were afraid to send their aeroplanes
out--reported that once more the British ships had withdrawn. That
evening Berlin would be cheered by the report that a prolonged and
determined attack upon Zeebrugge by strong enemy forces had failed,
with heavy losses inflicted upon the attackers.
But the task of the M.-L.'s was by no means accomplished. With the
destroyers still holding on, in case a swarm of German torpedo-boats
should issue from their lairs and pounce down upon the lightly-armed
patrol-boats, No. 4452 and her consorts remained to watch for the
returning seaplanes.
With their customary inclination to make "a show", the "spotting"
aircraft had gone inland upon the termination of the bombardment in
the hope that a Hun airman or two would try conclusions in aerial
combat. Failing an encounter, they proceeded with great deliberation
to drop bombs upon certain railway junctions, aerodromes, ammunition
dumps, and other objects of military importance.
Over the placid sea patches of genuine sea-fog were stealing, as if
Nature was bent upon showing man that, after all, his efforts at
maritime camouflage were puny compared with hers. At intervals there
was a clear view of the horizon; at others it was difficult to see a
cable's length ahead.
From the Belgian shore the thunder of the heavy guns had ceased, but
the air rumbled with the distant ceaseless cannonade on the Ypres
salient. There was no mistaking the noise. For nearly four years the
dwellers on the south-east coast of England and the seafarers in the
vicinity of the Straits of Dover had heard it. By this time its
monotonous rumble hardly raised a comment, save when at times it rose
to a crescendo of hate. And yet that incessant rumble was the
death-knell of thousands of the flower of the British Empire and its
gallant Allies, and, no less, that of the Hunnish invaders.
Out of a broad patch of clammy fog glided M.-L. 4452 into a blaze of
perfect sunshine. The glass windows of her wheel-house were open,
since the moisture rendered them almost like frosted glass.
"Look!" exclaimed Branscombe. In his excitement he brought his hand
down heavily upon the quartermaster's shoulder. "A Fritz; and we've
got him cold!"
There was no mistake this time. Porpoises and floating boat-hook
staves might be taken for U-boats, but the long, low-lying hull of
the German submarine and its twin periscopes could not possibly be
mistaken for anything but what they were, She was running on the
surface at a moderate speed of ten knots, as if loath to "crack on"
into the bewildering fog-bank that lay athwart her course.
"Stand by, aft!" shouted the Sub.
As if running for a challenge cup, the ex-bank clerk and the former
public schoolboy tore aft. They knew their job: to release the deadly
depth charges and to stand by the firing key, by means of which the
electric circuit was completed and the explosive detonated. All out,
the M.-L. made straight for her intended victim, her quick-firer
giving the U-boat a preliminary show by way of encouragement. The
shell missed the conning-tower by inches. Before the breech-block
could be opened, the still-smoking cylinder ejected and another
charge inserted, the U-boat dived so abruptly that for a few seconds
her rudders and twin-screws were clear of the water.
"Starboard . . . at that!"
Branscombe, his eyes fixed upon the surface-swell of the now
submerged pirate, waited until the M.-L. was crossing the path of the
frantically-diving Hun.
"Let go aft!"
With a smother of foam, the metal canister toppled from its cradle
into the milk-white wake of the swiftly-moving M.-L. The drum, on
which the insulated wire was wound, began to revolve rapidly as
fathom after fathom was paid out.
The Sub stepped from the wheel-house and raised his hand. Then, with
a quick decisive motion, he brought it down to his side. At the
signal, the key of the firing-battery was pressed home.
"Bon voyage, Fritz!" murmured Branscombe, as with an ear-splitting
report a column of mingled smoke and foam rose quite two hundred feet
into the air.
With her helm hard a-port the M.-L. circled rapidly to starboard,
and, steadying, passed at slow speed through the patch of agitated
water. One of the crew made ready to let go the mark-buoy to indicate
the position of the sunken U-boat. He waited for the order, but
Branscombe gave no word of command. Gripping the stanchion-wires, the
Sub leant over the side and watched. Then his look of elation gave
place to an expression of acute disappointment--like that of a needy
man who picks up from the gutter what he imagined to be a "Bradbury",
only to find that it is a wrapper of a packet of tobacco.
There was nothing--absolutely nothing--to indicate that the depth
charge had carried out its pre-ordained mission. Not a vestige of oil
floated on the surface of the sea. There were dead fish in hundreds,
killed by the terrific explosion, but not a scrap of debris that by
any stretch of the imagination could be attributed to the strafed
U-boat.
Up pelted M.-L. 4453, closely followed by No. 4454. The skipper of
the former raised a megaphone to his lips.
"Any luck?" he asked cheerfully.
"'Fraid not," shouted Guy, trying to hide his chagrin.
"Hard lines," was the sympathetic rejoinder.
"Yes, my luck's out this time," soliloquized Branscombe, as he gave
orders for the former course to be resumed. "I wish to goodness I'd
blown the beastly thing to bits."
But, had Guy known that his chum, Alec Seton, was on board the
submarine, he might not have expressed himself thus. He would still
have done his level best to strafe the U-boat, Seton notwithstanding.
It would have been a case of duty before everything; but it would
have been an unpleasant task.