MONITORS IN ACTION
UNDER a screen of smoke from a far-flung line of destroyers the
"Anzac" picked up her steamboat's crew. Being under fire, she could
not hoist in the picquet-boat. Wind and tide being favourable, the
boat was cut adrift. Unless sunk by a chance shot, she could be
recovered when the monitors withdrew at the conclusion of the
bombardment.
"Fire-control platform, Mr. Tressidar," ordered the captain when the
sub. reported himself in the conning-tower. "Mr. McTulloch has just
been sent down--badly wounded. Look alive--we want the range of
Battery 45 pretty quickly."
The monitor had ceased firing, owing to the smoke from the
intervening destroyers. It also gave the guns a chance to cool, for
they had been firing continuously for the last two hours.
Through the acrid-smelling smoke that wafted from below the sub. made
his way to one of the oblique legs of the tripod mast. One glance
showed that it was no longer possible to gain the lofty platform by
that means, for the metal tube was torn half-way through by a shell,
a dozen or more of the metal rungs of the ladder had been shorn away,
and the steel was still unbearable to the hand owing to the heat
generated by the terrible impact.
Fifteen feet above the sub.'s head dangled the frayed end of the rope
by which the officer he was about to relieve was lowered from the
fire-control platform. McTulloch, seriously wounded by a fragment of
shell, had hardly gained the deck ere another sliver of steel had cut
away his means of descent.
Crossing to the second inclined leg of the tripod mast, Tressidar
found that the steel ladder was comparatively intact. The metal
tubing of the mast had been dented in several places and perforated
more than once. The metal, too, was hot, but not to the same extent
as was the damaged leg.
Up through the drifting smoke the sub. made his way, the whole fabric
of the mast trembling under the continuous discharge of the heavy
ordnance.
When half-way up he felt a terrific jar, accompanied by a roar that
outvoiced the noise of the guns. The smoke was torn by lurid flashes;
fragments of metal hurtled past him or struck the mast with a sound
like that of a heavy hammer clanging on an anvil.
Temporarily blinded by the glare and partly stunned by the
concussion, Tressidar hung on like grim death. It was the triumph of
muscles over mind, for the action was purely automatic. Out swung the
tripod mast till the leg by which he was ascending was perpendicular,
although normally inclined thirty degrees to the vertical line. From
beneath him dense clouds of black and yellow smoke vomited from the
superstructure, to the accompaniment of the crackling of flames and
the groans of the wounded.
A hostile shell had scored a direct hit, partially wrecking the
after-end of the superstructure, making a clean sweep of the gear,
including the two anti-aircraft guns.
Tressidar was yet to know this. He was merely aware that the Huns had
"got one home." He wondered whether he was still alive, until the
mist cleared before his eyes and he found himself still clinging to
the slippery rungs.
At last he reached the small platform at the head of the two sloping
legs where they joined the higher and vertical "stick" of the tripod.
Ten feet above him was the oval aperture leading to the fire-control
platform. Hitherto the metal tube had formed a defence between him
and the direct line of fire--a moral protection rather than a real
one, since the metal was not proof against heavy shell-fire. But now,
owing to the vertical rungs being on the fore-side of the mast, he
was directly exposed to the fire of the shore batteries, and the Hun
had a nasty habit of using shrapnel in conjunction with the
high-explosive shells.
Another crash this time high above his head. For the moment he
thought that the fire-control platform had been swept out of
existence, for a raffle of spars, wire-rigging, and splinters of
metal tumbled past him, some of the debris so close that he felt the
"windage" on his cheeks.
Instinctively he ducked. When he raised his head again, he saw, to
his relief, that his appointed post still remained--at least the
"deck" of the fire-control platform was intact. The shell had struck
the topmast, cutting it in twain and bringing the wireless aerials
with the severed portions as it fell to augment the debris already
lumbering the deck.
The destroyers had now forged ahead. Their smoke no longer screened
the "Anzac" from the enemy. The monitor's guns, elevated to an angle
of thirty degrees, were pointed shoreways, but neither sent forth its
fifteen hundred pounds of death-dealing shell.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Tressidar. "They're waiting for someone to
register."
Spurred by the thought, he redoubled his energies, swarmed up the
remaining rungs of the ladder, and squeezed through the narrow
aperture on the deck of the fire-control station.
The sight which met his gaze was a terrible one. The metal roof had
been ripped through as easily as if it had been made of cardboard; a
dozen jagged holes were visible in the sides. The delicate
instruments were shattered almost out of recognition.
Huddled in one corner was the gunnery lieutenant. At his feet lay a
seaman; another was lying inertly across the body of the first.
Seated on the floor was Eric Greenwood with his head resting on his
drawn-up knees. The A.P. had been struck by a fragment of shell that
had inflicted a nasty scalp-wound. Partly stunned by the concussion
and blinded by the blood that streamed from the wound, he was just
able to recognise his chum.
"A clean wipe out," he muttered weakly. "Everything blown to blazes.
No use hanging on here, old man."
It was not a time for Tressidar to attend to his chum. Seizing the
voice-tube communicating with the conning-tower, he reported the
destruction of the registering gear. There was no response. He was
talking to empty air, for both voice-tubes and telephone-wires had
been severed; and since the target was invisible, the "Anzac's" huge
guns were practically useless without the directing force in the
fire-control station.
Risking death, Tressidar looked out over the side of his precarious
perch. The monitor was circling slowly to port. The fire that had
broken out in the superstructure was practically under control,
thanks to the copious stream of water played upon it by the "Downton"
pumps; but the deck looked a veritable shambles. Owing to her low,
armoured freeboard the "Anzac" had escaped injury 'twixt wind and
water, but almost everything on deck that was not protected had
disappeared in a veritable holocaust. The single funnel, partly shot
through, had buckled about fifteen feet close to the deck, the bent
portion resting against the after-leg of the tripod mast and swaying
dangerously with each roll of the ship.
The turret, scarred by several glancing hits, was still intact,
although hardly a vestige of grey paint remained; while the two guns
had shed their coats through the tremendous heat generated by the
sustained firing. The bridge had been swept clean away; only a few
bent and twisted stanchions remained. With its disappearance the top
of the conning-tower was revealed, the massive steel plating showing
signs of a complete fracture that extended from the edge about to the
centre of the elongated, domed roof.
The sight was not an encouraging one. It was evident that the "Anzac"
had received a terrible hammering and was no longer able to keep her
station.
Tressidar next devoted his attention to the rest of the flotilla. The
remaining monitors had fared considerably better. One, however, had
lost her tripod mast, while damage to topmasts and wireless masts
seemed pretty general. They had succeeded in breaking down most of
the resistance on the part of the enemy, for with few exceptions the
shore batteries were silent. Aided by wireless from the seaplanes
that serenely hovered over the German defence, the monitors' guns had
wrought terrific destruction upon the fixed positions amongst the
sand-dunes. Most of the hostile shells came from mobile batteries,
which were more difficult to locate; but as their guns were limited
in weight and calibre, these were puny when compared with the monster
weapons that the monitors had succeeded in silencing.
All this Tressidar took in almost at a glance. He had two tasks to
perform: to rescue the A.P. from his perilous position and to inform
the conning-tower of the state of the registering apparatus.
Mentally he compared the present situation with that on board the
"Heracles," when he had to take Midshipman Picklecombe down from the
fore-top. Eric Greenwood was a hefty man, whereas the midshipman was
a mere slip of a youth. The "Anzac" was still under fire--a desultory
one, but none the less nerveracking--while the "Heracles" was not
subjected to the attentions of hostile shells when she was on the
point of turning turtle. Again, there was a vast difference between
the ratlines of the cruiser and the slippery steel rungs of the
monitor's tripod mast.
"It's more than a one-man job," decided Tressidar reluctantly. "There
isn't enough rope to lower him down. I'll nip below and get
assistance."
The A.P. was now unconscious. He had fallen sideways, his head
resting on his arm Even as Tressidar bent over him he became aware
that the whole fabric of the fire-control platform was collapsing.
The tripods, already damaged, had given way under the strain and were
toppling overboard.
Throwing his left arm round Greenwood's inert body and hanging on
like grim death to a steel handrail, Tressidar braced himself to meet
his impending fate. The platform was inclining slowly but surely.
Already his feet were wedged against the now almost horizontal side.
Through the shattered roof he could see the water.
"There'll be a deuce of a smash," he thought. "Wonder if I can jump
clear before we're trapped?"
The triple mast had buckled, but its fall was retarded by the strain
upon the metal tubing. Instead of snapping off like a carrot, it was
as though the tripod was held by a stiff and rusty hinge.
For perhaps five seconds the fall was retarded, then with a quick
movement the bulky top-hamper lurched with a sickening movement until
it brought up across the broad deck, with the metal box in which the
sub. and his chum were penned hanging seven or eight feet over the
side.
Bruised and shaken, Tressidar retained his alertness of mind and
body. Without relaxing his grip upon his chum he scrambled through
the partly demolished roof. It was the only way, since the aperture
in the floor was too small for a hurried exit, especially when
burdened with a helpless comrade.
Not knowing how he did it, the sub. found himself perched on the mast
with the A.P. clasped tightly to his back. Now it was that his
gymnastic training proved of service, for, in spite of his burden, he
walked the outboard part of the now almost horizontal mast and
dropped lightly to the "Anzac's" deck--the only unwounded executive
officer of the crippled monitor.