The Passing of M.-L. 4452
"Lucky blighters!" ejaculated Lieutenant Farnborough, referring
enviously to the M.-L.'s told off to rescue the crews of the
block-ships. "They're on the move, by Jove!"
"Wish we were on the same game," added Branscombe covetously. "I
suppose we can't log an imaginary signal ordering us in support?"
"Brilliant idea of yours, old man," replied Farnborough. "Half a mind
to try the wheeze."
M.-L. 4452, having for the time being completed her smoke-screen
task, was "lying off", an interested spectator of the dash of the
block-ships into Zeebrugge Harbour.
Other M.-L.'s had been detailed to cover the retirement of the old
_Vindictive_ and the two ex-ferry boats--if they were fortunate
enough to draw away from the inferno of fire and shot, shell and
poison gas; but Farnborough's command, together with six other
M.-L.'s, was to stand by as a reserve rescue vessel.
The _Thetis_ and her consorts had vanished into the smoke-laden
harbour. After them dashed the small motor craft detailed for the
rescue of the crews of the block-ships.
"It's like sending half a dozen wasps to tickle the tongue of a
bad-tempered lion," remarked Branscombe. "Lucky bounders!"
"Harry Tate's Navy is well up to-night," added Farnborough grimly.
"I'd like to see some of those funny bounders who tried to pull our
legs taking on this business. Guess they'd have the wind up. Hello,
here's one of 'em!"
Zigzagging through the smoke, dodging shells that landed exactly on
the spot where she had been two or three seconds previously, came a
M.-L., her decks packed with human beings. The destroyers pushed
forward to screen her from the wrathful Huns. Listing badly and well
down by the stern, the brave little craft had dared, and had come
back, scarred with honourable wounds, from the gates of hell.
Then came another, also bearing a heavy deck cargo of rescued men. As
she passed within a hundred yards of M.-L. 4452, the latter gave her
a rousing, cheer.
A comparatively long interval elapsed. No more M.-L.'s came into
view. A rocket, soaring aloft above the smoke, announced that the
_Vindictive_ was recalling her storming- and demolition-parties. It
was a way of announcing that all that could be done was done, and
nothing else was left but to withdraw from the action.
"There's our number!" exclaimed Farnborough, as a light blinked
through the murk.
It was a stretch of imagination on the part of the Lieutenant in
command of M.-L. 4452. Whether he saw the signal, or only imagined
that he did, made little difference. There was an opportunity of
making a dash into the harbour, and Farnborough jumped at it.
The engine-room telegraph-bell clanged loudly as the Lieutenant
ordered "Full speed ahead both engines". M.-L. 4452, hitherto
waltzing to and fro in a seemingly erratic manner, quivered under the
pulsations of the powerful motors. Zigzagging, she leapt, forward
towards the partly demolished lighthouse at the Mole-head.
Standing just behind his superior officer, Branscombe began to taste
the sensation of going into action. At first the experience was far
from pleasant, especially when the beam of a powerful search-light
swung round and steadied itself full upon the swiftly moving M.-L.
"Our number's up," thought Branscombe, for he felt absolutely certain
that a salvo of hostile shells would follow within a few seconds.
Fritz would be sure to let fly with a veritable tornado of "hate"
upon the brilliantly-lighted target.
Unaccountably Branscombe's surmise was not realized. Beyond a few
chance missiles that hurtled wide of the mark not a shot came from
the Mole-head batteries. Out of the dazzling light into comparative
darkness dashed the M.-L., rolling heavily in the confused swell at
the harbour-mouth.
"Hard-a-port!"
Round swung No. 4452 just in time to escape collision with one of her
sisters. Silhouetted against the ruddy glare an officer, megaphone in
hand, leant over the rail of the returning M.-L.
"Cutter adrift. . . ." he shouted, and the rest of his words were lost in
the din.
Farnborough raised his hand in acknowledgment. He understood;
somewhere in that turmoil of strife a boat had had to be abandoned--a
cutter with some of the survivors of the block-ships--otherwise the
official in command would not have gone to the trouble of reporting
it. Loss of material counted for nought that night. The sacrifice of
His Majesty's stores mattered not at all, provided the main object of
the operations was achieved; but with human life at stake all that
could be done to effect a rescue must be attempted.
Rounding the Mole-head so closely that the extremity of her signal
yard-arm almost scraped the masonry as she rolled to starboard, M.-L.
4452 gained the wreck-strewn harbour. Narrowly averting collision
with a water-logged barge, part of the net defence works that the
block-ships had rammed, the speedy little craft held on.
A sliver of shell brought her mast down with a run, at the same time
blowing her search-light over the side. Branscombe's cap vanished
through the broken glass of the wheel-house; a hot stabbing pain in
his forehead caused him to raise his hand to his head. His fingers
were wet, sticky and red. A piece of flying metal had seared his
forehead.
The Sub hardly realized that he had been hit. An inch nearer and the
wound might have been fatal, yet his narrow escape hardly troubled
him.
"Mind that gear doesn't foul our prop!" he shouted to one of the
crew--the man who had intended to buy an M.-L. for pleasure-cruising
in those dim, far-distant halcyon days "after the war".
"Aye, aye, sir."
The man made his way to the side, where a raffle of wire was trailing
over the splintered deck. The next instant his feet gave way under
him and he sank inertly upon the deck.
In a trice Branscombe gripped him under the arm-pits and hauled him
into the frail shelter of the wheel-house. One glance was sufficient;
Brown, A.B. and ex-stockbroker, would never see the Stock Exchange
again, nor would he be able to put his carefully-laid after-the-war
plans into execution.
Another of the crew sprang forward, axe in hand. A few vigorous blows
sufficed to cut the tangle of broken gear clear. His immediate reward
was a machine-gun bullet through the left arm just above the elbow.
It was a hot time for M.-L. 4452. Apparently the other boats had
completed their particular tasks, for, as far as the drifting smoke
permitted, the harbour was clear of them. Fritz was hurling plenty of
"hate" at the solitary little craft, and only her speed and handiness
saved her from annihilation.
"No sign of the abandoned cutter," yelled Farnborough. "We'll hook
it--if we can."
Hard a-starboard went the helm. With the port propeller running
full-speed ahead and the starboard one half-speed astern, M.-L. 4452
spun round almost in her own length, just missing an undesirable
acquaintance in the shape of a 6-inch shell that ricochetted and
threw up a terrific column of spray within six feet of her bows.
Compared with the dash into the harbour the return journey was a
horrible nightmare. The haunting possibility of being knocked-out
recurred tenfold. The crew of the M.-L. no longer had their faces to
the foe, they were literally running for safety, and exposed to blows
in the back without being able to raise a finger in self-defence.
"There's the boat, by Jove!" exclaimed Branscombe.
"Where? How's she bearing?" asked the Lieutenant, for he was partly
blinded by blood flowing from a gash in his forehead. Like his Sub,
Farnborough hardly realized that he had been hit.
Telegraphing for "easy" and then "stop" the skipper brought his craft
to a standstill within boat-hook stave's length of a water-logged
dingy. Clinging to the partly submerged gunwale were two men.
"She's not a cutter, you juggins!" exclaimed Farnborough. "I believe
those fellows are rotten Huns."
He was about to telegraph for "Full-speed-ahead both engines", when
Branscombe gripped his arm.
"It's old Seton, by smoke!" he shouted, in order to make himself
heard above the din.
Quickly the well-nigh exhausted men were assisted over the side,
Seton minus a little finger, and the R.A.F. officer with a bullet
wound completely through his left shoulder.
It was no time for explanations. Like a thing endowed with life M.-L.
4452 leapt forward. She was now on the point of repassing the
badly-damaged lighthouse on the Mole-head. Here Huns, no longer in
danger of being strafed by the _Vindictive's_ landing-parties, were
frantically blazing away with their quick-firers and machine-guns. A
4.1 shell fired at point-blank range furrowed the fore-deck and,
without exploding, passed completely through the side a few inches
above the water-line. Another blew the M.-L.'s "tin" dinghy into the
sea, davits and all; while a third, striking the stern, smashed the
quadrant of the steering-gear and blew off the head of the rudder.
M.-L. 4452 began to describe a large circle, her head falling off
until she pointed straight for the Mole. To attempt to keep her on
her course by means of the helm was an impossibility, for not only
had the spare tiller--for use when as sometimes happened the
steering-wires and chains carried away--shared the fate of the
davits, but the rudder-head itself was bent and twisted by the
explosion of the shell.
Immediately the ship was hit Branscombe made his way aft to
investigate and report. He was back in the wheel-house just in time
to find Farnborough and the coxswain lying motionless on the floor,
and the M.-L., left to her own devices, circling to port.
The helm useless, Branscombe realized that he had to steer by means
of the twin screws. Under ordinary conditions it was a tricky job,
but the difficulties were now increased tenfold. A partly-disabled
boat, nearly half her complement out of action; a dark,
fog-enshrouded night with occasional bursts of dazzling light from
search-lights, star-shells, and the flashes of guns; a short,
confused sea, and the constant danger of ramming, or being rammed by,
other craft manoeuvring without lights.
There were dozens of similar vessels out that night engaged in the
same work. Frail little M.-L.'s, manned by amateur yachtsmen of
yesterday, were achieving wonders. Men from the Clyde, the Solent,
and the East Coast, whose knowledge of the sea was confined to a few
days or weeks of summer cruising under favourable conditions, were
proving their worth as fighters of the Empire. Experience gained in
those dainty little yachts, snow-white of deck and glittering with
burnished brass, was put to good use in those squat, grey-hulled
M.-L.'s. It was on St. George's Day that the practically unknown
R.N.V.R., unostentatiously at work as a unit of the great Silent
Navy, suddenly leapt upon the pinnacle of fame.
A dense pall of smoke drifted down and enveloped M.-L. 4452.
Branscombe had to steer solely by his sense of direction. He was one
of those men who instinctively could find his way through a dense
fog. At the back of his mind there was ever an impression--rarely,
if ever, at fault--of the direction in which lay the north. The
compass was useless: the same blow that had struck down the skipper
and the coxswain had wrecked the binnacle.
The while the din was simply terrific. The air trembled under the
violent, irregular pulsations of sound as guns large and small,
exchanged their mutual "hate".
With all his work cut out to keep the vessel on her course Branscombe
gripped both handles of the engine-room telegraph, and peered through
the smoke-laden night. Feelings almost akin to panic assailed him. He
was no longer a fighting man dashing into the fray, but a fugitive--a
human being endeavouring to escape from all the terrors of the jaws
of hell, as exemplified by the hitherto considered impregnable
harbour of Zeebrugge.
"If the motors konk out we're dished," he thought, as he listened to
detect any ominous sound from the pulsating engines. The vibration
was excessive, far more than is usual even with a heavily-powered
M.-L., but apparently the staunch little craft was still maintaining
her speed.
"She's making water badly, old man," exclaimed a voice.
Branscombe turned his head to find Seton standing behind him.
"Think she'll last out?" inquired Branscombe.
"Another hour--that's all I can give her," was the reply. "The
stern-post was badly strained when the rudder-head carried away."
"Auxiliary engine running?" inquired the M.-L.'s Sub speaking through
the voicetube to the engineer.
"No, sir," came the answer. "The mag's six inches under water,"
That meant that the power bilge-pumps were useless. The hand-pumps
were hopelessly jammed long ago. The search-light in being shot away
had done that damage. There were no means now of checking the steady
flow of water through the gaping seams.
By this time M.-L. 4452 had drawn out of range of lighter
quick-firers. Shells from heavy guns still hurtled overhead, unseen
but unpleasantly audible. Occasionally a huge projectile would
ricochet close to the little boat as a grim reminder that other
perils beside foundering were still present.
[Illustration: "SHE'S GOING, LADS!" SHOUTED BRANSCOMBE]
Presently Branscombe fancied that the M.-L. was turning to starboard.
A glance astern at the foaming wake was sufficient to confirm his
suspicions. Altering the starboard telegraph to easy astern, and then
stop, the R.N.V.R. Sub awaited developments. His fears were realized.
Only the port engine was running, the other had "konked".
"Ignition, sir," reported the engineer in reply to Branscombe's
inquiry. "I'll try and get her going in a few moments."
The fact that the little engine-room staff had been working knee-deep
in oily water, and that the electric light had failed, added to the
difficulties of the strenuously-engaged men. While one held an
electric torch in position, the other was busily engaged in fitting
new sparking-plugs--even if only to keep the motors running another
quarter of an hour.
Branscombe signalled for the port engine to be stopped. It was worse
than useless to run on one engine, since the M.-L. would circle
aimlessly and possibly drift nearer the Belgian coast.
The M.-L. was rolling sluggishly. She always did roll heavily, but
the motion was totally different. It suggested a lack of liveliness,
and the gurgling sound of tons of water surging to and fro 'neath
decks told its own tale.
M.-L. 4452 was foundering--slowly, but nevertheless surely. Her metal
dinghy was a mere scrap of riddled galvanized iron. Her life-buoys
had either been carried away, or had been shattered by machine-gun
fire. Down below were half a dozen life-belts. These with a few
wooden gratings were the sole means of supporting the survivors of
the crew, all of whom, with the exception of the engine-room staff,
were more or less wounded.
A rift in the persistent bank of smoke revealed nothing near at hand.
Miles away could be seen search-lights and flashes of guns, as the
monitors and destroyers were covering the retreat of the
_Vindictive_, _Iris_, and _Daffodil_. Apparently M.-L. 4452 had been
carried too far to the nor'ard by the tide. Even if she contrived to
keep afloat till dawn, the rising of the sun would expose her to the
full view of the exasperated Huns ashore.
"She's going, old son!" exclaimed Seton, who had been engaged in
strapping life-belts round the unconscious forms of Farnborough,
Smith, and the coxswain. "Think yourself lucky it's your first swim
to-night. It's my second, and the water's beastly cold."
"And it's a long swim to Dover," rejoined Branscombe facetiously. His
sense of panic had now entirely deserted him. Practically beyond
range of the hostile batteries, save for the chance of an unlucky hit
from a long-range gun, he was now just a sailor bent on doing his
level best to save his ship from disaster and his crew from drowning.
A couple of hands were told off below to ram every available piece of
canvas gear into the broad wedges formed by the transom and the
vessel's quarter, since it was here that she leaked badly. The
canvas, saturated with oil, certainly checked the inrush, but whether
it was possible to keep the M.-L. afloat was a question open to
doubt.
Had it been daylight M.-L. 4452 would have presented a forlorn
spectacle. Night hid her honourable scars, and toned down the ragged
appearance of her shell-swept deck. She had had a gruelling. Holed in
a dozen places, her mast, search-light, and most of her deck-fittings
blown away, deep down by the stern, she had played her part.
The most strenuous efforts on the part of her engine-room hands were
doomed to failure. With a foot of water surging over the beds of the
motors, it was impossible to "get a kick" out of either of them. It
was a case of both or none if the boat were to be steered at all.
Yet, loath to admit failure, the two men toiled, with their hands
almost raw and the sweat pouring down their foreheads, in the vain
hope that the engines could be made to run once more.
Clad in a sweater, flannel trousers, and an oilskin--gear that he had
annexed from the M.-L.'s ward-room--Seton was indefatigable in his
efforts to assist Branscombe to save the ship. At his suggestion oil
was thrown overboard to quell the effect of the rapidly-rising waves,
while a rough-and-ready sea-anchor was rigged up and thrown over the
bows to keep her stem-on to the vicious, crested breakers.
The R.A.F. pilot, who had now almost recovered from the effect of his
immersion, was working strenuously, passing buckets of water up the
hatchway in order to keep down the rising water in the hold. All
available hands were doing their utmost, realizing that every moment
gained meant an additional chance of preserving their lives.
At intervals Verey-lights were fired to call the attention of any
vessel within reasonable distance of the sinking ship; yet minute
after minute sped and no succour was forthcoming. Evidently the
flotilla, its work accomplished, was on its way to England, and M.-L.
4452 with others would be reported as destroyed by enemy action.
Aft the water was ankle-deep on deck. The rolling became slower and
more sluggish. It was now a question of minutes before the gallant
little M.-L. made her last plunge.
Wearing their life-belts, the survivors mustered abaft the
wheel-house, for Branscombe had given orders for the engineers to
abandon the motor-room and fall-in on deck. The wounded and
unconscious officer, and two of the deck hands, who were rather badly
hit, were laid on deck, and also provided with life-buoys, their
comrades volunteering to "stand by" them in the water until the last.
Facing peril, the indomitable British spirit prevailed. Every man of
the little crew, save those who were unconscious of their
surroundings, kept a stiff upper lip. While making every endeavour to
save themselves they were resolved, should things come to the worst,
to die bravely, conscious that they had done their duty to the end.
The M.-L.'s bows rose until her forefoot was clear of the water; her
stern dipped until a surge of icy water swept for'ard as far as the
wheel-house. It seemed as if she no longer had sufficient buoyancy to
shake herself clear. Cascades of water poured through the hatchways
and the gaping rents in her decks.
"She's going, lads!" shouted Branscombe, stating what was an obvious
fact. The incongruity of the remark struck him almost as soon as he
had spoken. Then--"Every man for himself, and the best of luck."
Even as they waited for the ship to sink beneath them, a long, dark
shape loomed through the darkness. Coming seemingly from nowhere, a
destroyer ranged up alongside the sinking M.-L.
"Jump for it, men," shouted a voice through a megaphone.
Under the lee of the destroyer, the M.-L., half water-logged lay
comparatively quietly, rubbing sullenly against the large coir
fenders hanging over the side of the rescuing vessel.
The wounded were first transferred, then the rest of the crew, Seton
and Branscombe being the last to leave. The latter was not
empty-handed; under his arm he carried the M.-L.'s smoke-discoloured
and tattered White Ensign. The signal code-book he had thrown
overboard when it seemed that hope was dead.
Even as Branscombe clambered over the rail M.-L. 4452 gave an almost
human shudder and slithered beneath the waves.