[Illustration: cover art]
A WATCH-DOG OF THE
NORTH SEA
[Illustration: "SHE REELED HEAVILY WITH THE EFFECT OF A MORTAL BLOW"]
A WATCH-DOG OF
THE NORTH SEA
A NAVAL STORY OF
THE GREAT WAR
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
AUTHOR OF "A SUB. OF THE R.N.R."
"THE DREADNOUGHT OF THE AIR"
ETC.
S.W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1
MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
First published December 1916
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. H.M.S. "POMPEY"
II. THE RESULT OF THE LEADING STOKER'S CURIOSITY
III. GREENWOOD SENIOR'S DISCOVERY
IV. THE SECRET PETROL-DEPÔT
V. EXPLANATIONS
VI. AN EXCELLENT NIGHT'S WORK
VII. THE DAY FOLLOWING
VIII. SPY AND SUPER-SPY
IX. AN ADVENTURE ON THE HILLS
X. THE FOILED RAID
XI. ONE ZEPPELIN THE LESS
XII. AN OCEAN DUEL
XIII. ADRIFT
XIV. A BREACH OF NEUTRALITY
XV. A PRISONER OF WAR
XVI. THE FIRST DAY OF CAPTIVITY
XVII. A DASH FOR LIBERTY
XVIII. THE DERELICT OBSERVATION BALLOON
XIX. THE DESERTED HOUSE
XX. TRESSIDAR SOLVES A MYSTERY
XXI. CHECKMATE
XXII. THE SHELL-BATTERED HOSPITAL
XXIII. AT AULDHAIG ONCE MORE
XXIV. A FIGHT TO A FINISH
XXV. IN THE MOMENT OF TRIUMPH
XXVI. THE HOME-COMING OF THE S.S. "MEROPE"
XXVII. A DAY ON DARTMOOR
XXVIII. --AND A NIGHT
XXIX. WHEN THE TRAWLERS SHOWED FIGHT
XXX. A NOVEL DUCK HUNT
XXXI. MONITORS IN ACTION
XXXII. THE "ANZAC'S" DAY
XXXIII. A SPLINTER OF SHELL
XXXIV. EXIT OBERFURST
XXXV. TRESSIDAR'S REWARD
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
IN COLOUR
Frontispiece
"SHE REELED HEAVILY WITH THE EFFECT OF A
MORTAL BLOW"
"A MAELSTROM OF FOAM HID THE SPOT WHERE THE
PERISCOPE HAD BEEN VISIBLE".
"THEY THREW UP THEIR ARMS AND YELLED FOR QUARTER"
WITH THE QUICK-FIRERS TRAINED UPON THE
BULKY TARGET, NO. 445 APPROACHED WITHIN
HAILING DISTANCE
AN OCEAN DUEL
"'IN WITH YOU, OLD MAN!' HE EXCLAIMED"
A BATTLE-CRUISER SQUADRON
"ON THE DECK WAS A GERMAN UNTER-LEUTNANT,
BOUND HAND AND FOOT"
A WATCH-DOG OF THE
NORTH SEA
CHAPTER I
H.M.S. "POMPEY"
A BUGLE-CALL rang out shrill and clear in the wintry air.
"Thank goodness--at last," murmured Eric Greenwood. "That's an end to
'Action Stations' for the time being. Let me see. Tomorrow coal ship,
next day make up the money. Payment on Friday, and ten to one
there'll be half a gale of wind--and paper money is a strafed
nuisance."
Thus musing, Assistant Paymaster Greenwood, R.N.R., completed his
preparations for vacating the fore-top of H.M.S. "Pompey," where he
had been acting as assistant to the lieutenant in charge of the
fire-control arrangements.
The fore-top, a caged-in structure measuring roughly eight feet by
eight, was situated ninety feet above the upper deck. In long-range
actions it took the place of the conning-tower as "the brains of the
ship," for in that limited aerial perch seven officers and men, all
working with a common set purpose, were able to direct salvoes of
death-dealing missiles with uncanny accuracy to a target invisible to
the guns' crews at their stations behind six inches of Krupp steel.
"Carry on, old man," said Vickers, the lieutenant, indicating a small
trap-hatch in the floor of the top. "Be careful; there's ice about."
Greenwood had already made up his mind to be careful. A man who, up
to within fifteen months ago, had led an eminently sedate existence
as a bank clerk does not take to work aloft with the same agility and
confidence inspired by years of training at Osborne and Dartmouth.
At the outbreak of war Eric Greenwood was a ledger clerk at a bank in
a quiet Devonshire country town. The notion of serving under the
White Ensign had never occurred to him, even in his wildest dreams,
until the Admiralty called for additional accountant officers for the
Royal Naval Reserve. Eric promptly sent in his application. It was
curtly acknowledged; and then followed weeks of tedious, sickening
suspense, until, when hope seemed dead, the bank clerk received an
envelope marked "O.H.M.S.," the contents of which transformed him
into an acting assistant paymaster, R.N.R.
After a short term at the Naval Barracks at Devonport, Greenwood was
sent to a small base on the east coast of Scotland. It seemed as if
he were fated to remain ashore until the termination of the war,
when, to his unbounded satisfaction, he was appointed to H.M.S.
"Pompey."
The "Pompey" was an armoured cruiser of 14,000 tons, armed with two
9.2-in. and fourteen 6-in. guns, in addition to several weapons of
lighter calibre. Although by no means a modern vessel, she was
generally considered to be a "tough nut" and able to give a good
account of herself on The Day--that long-expected and long-deferred
event--when the Germans finally made up their minds to decide by
ordeal of battle whether they could attempt to wrench the trident of
sea-power from Britannia's grasp.
Lieutenant Vickers's caution was necessary, for as the A.P. lowered
himself through the narrow opening, his feet came in contact with the
ratlines of the wire-shrouds. They were slippery with ice, for it had
been drizzling, as it almost always did in the North Sea when it was
not blowing a gale, and the moisture settling on the rigging had
frozen hard.
The ship was rolling considerably. At one moment the starboard
shrouds were almost perpendicular, at another they inclined at such
an angle that Greenwood was almost lying on his face at full length
upon a gigantic wire net. Clouds of eddying, pungent smoke enveloped
him, for the vessel had a following wind. The keen blast seemed to
cut him like a knife in spite of his bulky, additional clothing.
The young officer descended rapidly. He was anxious to gain the deck
for two reasons. He wanted to warm himself by the wardroom fire; he
was also aware that a destroyer had a few hours previously sent on
board a batch of mails--the first for nearly a fortnight. After
thirteen days of patrol work without being in touch with land, the
prospect of receiving letters from home was one that outweighed all
others, unless, perhaps--harrowing thought!--the mail-bag was a blank
so far as Eric was concerned.
"Hello, old bird! A trifle nippy up in your little perch!" exclaimed
a voice as Greenwood stepped over the threshold of the wardroom door.
The speaker was a tall, broad-shouldered sub-lieutenant, Ronald
Tressidar by name. Between these two there existed a friendship that
was almost of lifelong duration, for their respective homes were in
the same Devonshire town. Of recent years they had seen little of
each other. Their careers were set upon totally different lines till
by a pure coincidence they found themselves appointed to H.M.S.
"Pompey."
"Beastly cold," agreed Greenwood as he made his way to the
letter-rack. Thanks be! There was a goodly sheaf of envelopes bearing
his name. Eagerly the A.P. possessed himself of his correspondence
and sought a chair in the sadly depleted wardroom, for upon the
outbreak of hostilities the cosy atmosphere of the place had given
way to a state of almost Spartan simplicity.
Silence reigned. The rest of the officers off duty were literally
devouring their greetings from home or else were burying their heads
between the pages of newspapers that were at least three days old.
In the warm glow, with his mind fully occupied with thoughts of home
and distant friends, Greenwood forgot completely the rigorous period
of "Action Stations" in the fore-top. But all things come to an end.
Reluctantly the A.P. folded his letters and placed them in his
pocket. As he did so he caught Tressidar's eye.
"Anything startling?" asked the sub., taking a vacant place on the
lounge within a couple of feet of Greenwood's chair.
"Heaps," replied the A.P. "For one thing, an aeroplane came down on
the pater's greenhouse. No one hurt. I can imagine the governor
cutting up rough about it. He never could see the humorous side of
anything. The mater is still knitting for the troops. I pity the poor
fellows who get hold of any of the gear she turns out. Once upon a
time in the dire days of my youth she knitted me a pair of socks. I
didn't forget to chip her about them, too."
"She makes awfully decent cakes," remarked Tressidar reminiscently.
"She does," agreed the A.P. "And I remember the time when we brought
a hammer and a cold chisel to the tea-table and pretended to split
the almond paste asunder."
"Wasn't that the cake your sister Doris made?"
"Might have been, now you mention it," said Greenwood. "Talking of
Doris, she's now a probationer in the Reserve Nursing Service, and
she's appointed to Auldhaig."
"Is that so?" asked Tressidar with ill-feigned disinterestedness.
Nevertheless a deep flush overspread his tanned and weather-beaten
features. The sub. had always been extremely partial to the girl, but
Doris had been in the habit of keeping him severely in his place.
That was long before the war.
"Strange that she should be sent to our base," continued Eric. "We
may see something of her this Christmas, for I heard the fleet
paymaster say that we are likely to remain in harbour until early in
the New Year. He had the tip from the engineer-commander, who
submitted a list of defects as long as your arm."
As a matter of fact Ronald Tressidar knew more about Doris
Greenwood's plans than did her brother, for a letter from the girl
was reposing in his pocket. Generally outspoken and communicative in
most matters, Tressidar maintained a studious reticence in his chum's
presence whenever the subject of Greenwood's nineteen-year-old sister
was discussed.
"There's 'Action Stations' again!" exclaimed a lieutenant-commander
as a bugle blared on deck.
Instantly there was a rush on the part of the occupants of the
wardroom, to the accompaniment of the sharp cracks of the
quick-firers.
But before Tressidar gained the deck the danger--at least for the
time being--was over. The "Pompey" had ported helm, while at less
than twenty yards on the port beam the surface of the water was
marked by a pair of diverging lines that indicated the track of a
torpedo. By a smart display of helmsmanship the cruiser had escaped
destruction.
Already the skipper, who after an arduous night had turned in, was on
the bridge, with his feet in carpet slippers and the legs of his
pyjama suit showing below the bottom of his great-coat.
"See any signs of a periscope, Mr. Flanders?" he inquired of the
officer of the watch.
"No, sir," was the reply. "We opened fire at what turns out to be a
floating spar. The torpedo came from broad on our port beam before I
ordered the helm to be put hard over."
"Good!" exclaimed Captain Raxworthy. "We'll see if we can't nab her."
In ordinary circumstances a battleship or cruiser that has the good
luck to be missed by a hostile torpedo steams off at full speed from
the dangerous locality. Should destroyers or patrol boats be in the
vicinity, they are brought up at full speed to attempt to intercept
the submarine. But on this occasion the "Pompey" was alone in this
remote portion of the North Sea.
Contrary to precedent, Captain Raxworthy gave orders for the cruiser
to slow down and come to a standstill. At the same time volumes of
steam were allowed to hiss through the steam-pipes. All the six-inch
and light quick-firers were manned, ready at the first glimpse of the
hostile periscope to let fly such a weight of metal that the still
submerged hull of the submarine would stand no chance of resisting
the powerful shells.
The skipper of the "Pompey" was correct in his surmise. By slowing
down and letting off steam the cruiser behaved in much the same way
as if she had been actually torpedoed. The crew of the submarine
heard the sounds that apparently betokened the cruiser in her
death-agonies, and they could not resist the temptation to approach
the surface and survey their work through the periscope.
Four hundred yards away on the "Pompey's" starboard quarter a
pole-like object shot stealthily above the surface. It wanted the
trained eyes of a seaman to discern the ripple of foam that denoted
the position. Half a dozen or more of the "Pompey's" crew spotted the
expected target.
[Illustration: "A MAELSTROM OF FOAM HID THE SPOT WHERE THE PERISCOPE
HAD BEEN VISIBLE"]
The next instant twenty shells were shrieking through the air on
their way towards the doomed submarine. A perfect maelstrom of foam,
mingled with smoke and fragments of metal hid the spot where the
periscope had been visible.
The columns of foam subsided; the smoke drifted rapidly away in the
strong breeze; but ominous air-bubbles and an ever-increasing oily
patch that had the effect of quieting the crested waves denoted the
undisputed fact that yet another unterseeboot had shot her last
bolt. Eight hours later H.M.S. "Pompey" entered Auldhaig Firth.