Preparations
"Jolly rotten luck that _Bolero_ business," remarked Lieutenant
Farnborough, commanding M.-L. 4452.
The M.-L. lay alongside the oil-fuel jetty in Dover Harbour. A week
had elapsed since the stunt off Zeebrugge. Farnborough was still far
from fit. His sprained ankle was much better, but the injury to his
back caused him considerable inconvenience and pain on movement. Yet,
eager not to miss the opportunity of participating in the impending
big operations at Zeebrugge and Ostend, he sturdily refused the more
prudent course of reporting sick, and carried on as usual.
It was a calm, moonlit evening, following a hard blow. There was a
fairly heavy sea running in the Channel, while in the Wick, or
portion of Dover Harbour enclosed by the new Admiralty breakwater, a
long swell was setting in, causing the destroyer and other vessels at
the buoys to roll heavily. The "gush" was even communicated to the
small basin at the north-eastern end of the harbour, where half a
dozen M.-L.'s and two P.-boats lay in somewhat dangerous proximity to
thousands of tons of highly-inflammable oil fuel.
No. 4452 was rolling slightly, her large coir fenders grunting and
groaning as they ground against the massive timbers of the pier, the
deck of which towered thirty feet above the little craft. Beyond and
above, looming ghostly in the cold moonlight, were the rugged chalk
cliffs crowning the venerable Dover Castle.
Sub-lieutenant Guy Branscombe, deep in a novel, merely shrugged his
shoulders. His skipper's words had as yet failed to penetrate his
understanding. Farnborough knew the Sub's peculiarity. In his spells
of off-duty Branscombe was a regular book-worm. Farnborough, on the
other hand, was prone to conversation, but he had an unsatisfactory
victim in his sub, who was able to defend himself against inopportune
interruption by entire absorption in the book of the moment.
Presently, after a lapse of a minute or more, Branscombe removed his
pipe.
"What's that about the _Bolero_?" he asked.
"Torpedoed," replied the Lieutenant.
"Lost off the Nord Hinder last Friday week."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Branscombe. "I know a fellow on that destroyer.
Any casualties?"
"'Fraid so," answered Farnborough. "Night, rough sea, and all that
sort of thing, you know. An officer and seventeen men
missing--presumed drowned. Here you are, my boy!"
He handed Branscombe a copy of an Admiralty confidential circular
giving details of the disaster. A month later the casualty list would
be communicated to the Press together with a bald statement that "one
of H.M. destroyers was torpedoed and sunk in the North Sea on the
night of so and so". It would have to be left to one's imagination,
and perhaps the simple narrative of a survivor, to picture the end of
a gallant vessel, for "the Navy doesn't advertise", especially in
war-time.
"Good Heavens!" ejaculated Branscombe; "I knew Seton awfully well.
Old school chum of mine. His people lived close to my home. An' I
came up in the train with him to Rosyth just before we commissioned;
he envied me my stunt because of the extra excitement and risks," he
added reminiscently. "Poor old Seton!"
The news hit Branscombe badly. In the senior service men get to know
each other more than in the army. The camaraderie of the sea is a
real thing. Friendships made afloat are generally of a lasting order,
especially during a two years' commission, by the end of which time
there is hardly a secret between "chummy" officers.
And into the midst of the big band of brothers stalked Death--far too
frequently during the Great War. Men went singly, in dozens, and in
hundreds, nobly doing their duty to King and Country. Some died in
the knowledge that their passing was witnessed by their comrades;
others went unheard and unseen, with none able to tell with any
degree of accuracy of the manner of their going.
"Rough luck," murmured Farnborough sympathetically. "Did I ever come
across him?"
"Not to my knowledge," replied the Sub, "and to my belief you never
will."
"Strange things happen at sea," rejoined the Lieutenant. "There's
nothing to prove that Seton's been done in. However, to change the
subject, you might cast your eye on this. You'll have to commit the
thing to memory."
The "thing" was a close-lined, typewritten document endorsed
"Strictly Confidential". Branscombe gave a low whistle as he read the
title. It was "Orders for Coastal Motor-Launches for the impending
operations off Ostend and Zeebrugge".
For some considerable time past a series of rehearsals for the
contemplated bottling up of the two Belgian ports had been taking
place. One of the first steps was to pick and choose the men; the
second was to train them. Volunteers for a certain mysterious and
hazardous business were called for. Hundreds were required, thousands
offered themselves. Bluejackets and stokers from the Grand Fleet, men
from that Corps d'Elite, the Royal Marines, were accepted to form
landing parties; destroyers from the Dover Patrol were merged into
the scheme, together with several M.-L.'s; co-operation by the Royal
Air Force was secured, pilots and observers from the old Royal Naval
Air Service offering themselves in shoals.
The next step was the training. The operations were to be of a vast
and complex nature, every division, sub-division, and individual
working in harmony and unison with the rest. Should one link in the
chain of preparation be faulty and not detected, should one division
fail to do its allotted part, the whole enterprise might be in
jeopardy.
To facilitate matters, relief plans of Zeebrugge and Ostend were
prepared, every known detail being inserted, while daily corrections
and additions were made, based upon aerial photographs and observers'
reports.
In a remote and secluded spot in Kent, a full-size model of the
portion of Zeebrugge Mole, alongside which it was proposed to place
the vessels bearing the storming-parties, was constructed, so that
the attackers would know exactly what was required of them. To be
able to surmount a thirty-feet wall and to know the obstructional
difficulties which lay on the other side was an asset; it certainly
made things easier and gave a feeling of confidence to the
attacking-party. But there was one element that could not be
estimated exactly, but only guessed at and allowed for--the presence
of German troops on the actual Mole.
To land seamen and marines on the Mole the old cruiser _Vindictive_
was prepared. A sister ship to the ill-fated _Gladiator_, the
_Vindictive_ had long ceased to count as an effective ship of the
Royal Navy. To all outward appearances her days were over. She was
fit only for the shipbreaker's yard. Any further expenditure upon her
was a waste of public money. These were a few of the many criticisms
passed upon this and similar vessels, when it was proposed
drastically to cut down the number of non-effective vessels on the
navy list.
But in spite of her years--for she was old as far as steel vessels
go--the _Vindictive_ was fated not only to prove of important service
but to cover herself with honour and glory, not once but twice, and
to end her days in a glory of heroism that will for ever be written
on the pages of the world's history.
Step by step the plans were worked out. Landing demolition-parties on
the Mole was but a subsidiary operation. So was that of smashing the
wooden bridge connecting the Mole with the mainland, and thus
hampering the arrival of German reinforcements.
The climax of the operations was the bottling up of Zeebrugge and
Ostend by means of old cruisers filled with concrete.
A few years ago the world was thrilled by the exploits of Lieutenant
Hobson, of the U.S.A. Navy, when he attempted to bottle up Cevera's
fleet in Santiago Harbour. Newspapers devoted columns of copy to
chronicle and dilate upon the heroic deed; yet, without detracting
from the merits of the achievement, the attempt was comparatively
easy compared with the task before the British Navy at Zeebrugge and
Ostend.
Hobson, with a small volunteer crew, took an old tramp steamer
through the narrow entrance to Santiago Harbour. Within was a
demoralized Spanish fleet. The forts were ill-armed and ill-served.
Hobson carried out his instructions, but the actual result was a
partial failure. The sinking of the block-ship did not prevent
Cevera's fleet from issuing from the harbour and literally
sacrificing itself to the guns of the powerful American fleet.
In the case of Ostend and Zeebrugge, the Huns were equipped with the
most modern instruments of warfare. Everything that science could
devise was at their command. The Belgian ports were formidable
fortresses possessing natural and artificial defences of a stupendous
character. No doubt the Boche, despite strenuous efforts on the part
of the British to ensure secrecy, had a good inkling of what was
being contemplated, and would take steps accordingly.
The vessels told off to attempt the bottling operations were obsolete
third-class cruisers. They were to approach at night under their own
steam, enshrouded in artificial fog, gain an entrance, if possible,
and then sink themselves in the fairways of the two harbours. This
act of maritime _felo-de-se_ was to be accomplished by exploding
charges in their holds. Officers and men had to be employed to
navigate the vessels; engineer officers, E.R.A.'s, and stokers were
necessary to keep up a head of steam; their task accomplished, they
themselves had to be rescued, if possible.
It was here that the little M.-L.'s were again to prove their worth.
On a given signal they were to dash into the harbour, range alongside
the sinking block-ships, and dash out again with the rescued
crews--provided the boats survived the maelstrom of fire that was
sure to greet them.
"We're up against a tough proposition, my lad," remarked Farnborough,
as he cut a chunk of navy plug and shredded it between his horny
palms. Four years ago horny hands and plug tobacco were ill
acquainted with Frank Farnborough, but a man's manners and customs
undergo a considerable change in four years of war. Now he prided
himself on the toughness of his palms and thoroughly enjoyed the
tobacco.
"We are," assented Branscombe; then, after a pause, he added: "but I
wouldn't miss it for anything."
"Nor I," added the Lieutenant. "If there's to be another blessed
medical examination, I'll thug, poison, or bluff the whole of the
medical branch of the navy. I'll go somehow, this idiotic sprain
notwithstanding."
Branscombe made no remark. Much as he admired the grit and tenacity
of his chief, he knew that at a time when every ounce of strength,
both mental and bodily, were required, a man, handicapped by a stiff
back, would not only be a trouble to himself but to the crew. Under
the most favourable conditions the Lieutenant would not be fit in
less than a week--and that with constant rest. He was too energetic
to rest, and the stunt was timed to take place on the forthcoming
Thursday.
The eventful day came at last. The sea was calm, the wind light.
Gleefully, almost boisterously, the major portion of the
storming-party boarded the _Vindictive_. The rest were told off to
two Mersey ferry-boats--the _Iris_ and _Daffodil_. Monitors were
making ready to proceed at slow speed; destroyers and M.-L.'s were
fussing noisily around, awaiting the Admiral's order to carry on.
Farnborough, dissembling his hurt, was in the wheel-house, with
Branscombe close at hand. Anxiously they watched the aneroid. For
days it had been remarkably steady, but now, just after noon, it
commenced to fall. Weather was a tremendous factor. With anything
like a sea it would be practically impossible to lay the ships with
the landing-parties alongside the Mole, while the chance of being
able to set in position even a single gangway was out of the
question.
There might be time before the weather broke, but the prospect was
disquieting. Uneasily, men scanned sea and sky. Everyone hoped that
the approaching storm would be deferred until the morrow.
Overhead, "Blimps" and sea-planes buzzed like wasps round a jam-jar.
Ill betide the Hun who dared to make a cut-and-run raid upon Dover.
Not a German airman must have an inkling of the assembly of the
strange, ill-assorted armada in Dover Harbour.
With the dipping of the sun beneath the western horizon the flotilla
put to sea. Meteorological reports from Zeebrugge and
Ostend--obtained in some mysterious manner by the British
Admiralty--reported slight fog and a faint ground-swell. That
ground-swell presaged a storm--it was a race between armed might and
Nature.
The M.-L.'s were at the tail of the flotilla. Their rôle would come
last. It was imperative that they should be preserved intact until
the critical moment. Their motors had to be kept absolutely in tune,
for engine trouble meant disaster, not only to the crippled M.-L.,
but possibly to her consorts.
An hour and a half sped. Slowly, yet in perfect order, the strange
assembly of warships lessened the distance between them and the
invisible Belgian coast. Already the glare of the hostile
search-lights could be discerned.
"Another three hours, my lad, and we'll be seeing life," declared
Farnborough; "and death," he added in an undertone.
Almost as he spoke, a general wireless signal was sent from the
Flagship. Decoded, the orders were brief and explicit:
"Operations abandoned owing to adverse weather conditions. Ships to
return to Dover."