THE DERELICT
THERE are few things more heart-breaking than sea patrol, which forms
the principal duty of anti-submarine fleets. Hours, days and even months
may pass with nothing to relieve the monotony of grey sea and sky, with
occasional glimpses of wave-tossed ships.
There are, of course, intervening periods in harbour, when fierce gales
howl overhead, and guard duty on rain-swept quaysides, or sentry-go in
blinding snowstorms, comes almost as a relief from the sameness of
winter days on northern seas.
It is, however, the unexpected which generally occurs in war, and during
those terrible winters from 1914-1918 it was the ever-present hope of
action that kept the spirits of many a sailorman from sinking below the
Plimsoll line of health.
Sometimes the happenings were grave and at other times gay, but always
they were welcomed eagerly, as providing excitement or change, with
something to talk about in the unknown number of dreary weeks ahead.
An episode of this kind occurred one snowy January night in 1917 on the
quayside of a northern seaport. The commanding officer of one of the
patrol boats in the harbour was going ashore to stay for the night with
some friends. Knowing that his ship was due to proceed to sea early the
following morning, he took the precaution to place a small alarm clock
in the big pocket of his bridge-coat. Groping his way in the darkness
and blinding snow across the gangway leading from the ship to the quay,
he succeeded in reaching the dock wall. Almost instantly he was
challenged by a military sentry on duty and was about to reply when a
loud buzzing noise came from his pocket. He had not thought of
ascertaining at what time the alarm clock had been set for and the
consequences were distinctly unpleasant.
The sentry, hearing the curious buzzing sound coming from the darkness
directly he had given the challenge, and thinking it came from some form
of bomb, lunged smartly with his bayonet at the spot from which the
sound emanated.
Fortunately the officer was near the edge of the dock wall and did not
receive the full effect of the thrust. The bayonet tore his coat and
pushed him violently over the edge into the icy water of the harbour.
His lusty shouts caused searchlights to be turned on and he was rescued
promptly, but the episode, small and unimportant as it was, caused
considerable merriment--except to the principal actor--for many days
afterwards.
All this may sound much like heresy to those who think that naval war
means constant fighting, with all the pomp and circumstance of old-time
battles. There are, it is true, never-to-be-forgotten moments when the
blood surges and pulses beat rapidly, when the months of weary waiting
are atoned for in as many minutes of swift action. Such were Jutland,
Zeebrugge, Heligoland, the Falklands and many an unrecorded fight on
England's sea frontier in the years just past. Such times pass rapidly,
however; they are the milestones of war, leaving the weary leagues
between, in which there is so much that is sordid and even ghastly, as
will be seen from the following.
* * * * *
The sea offers but few sights more melancholy than the wave-washed
derelict--the now desolate, helpless and forlorn thing that was once a
_ship_, the home of men--seen in the half-light of a winter dawn, rising
and falling sluggishly on the dirty grey swell--the aftermath of
storm--with white water washing through its broken bulwarks, yards and
sails adrift, a thing without life on the sad sea waves.
A wireless message from a ship passing the derelict on the previous day
had brought an M.L. from the nearest naval base to search the area, and
after a night of wandering over shadowy grey slopes of water the dawn
had revealed it less than two miles distant.
There could be no doubt as to its nationality, for the white cross of
Denmark, on the red ground, was painted on the weather-beaten sides, now
showing just above the sea. Deserted and half-waterlogged, it was being
kept afloat by a cargo of timber, some of which could be seen in chaos
on the deck.
The M.L. approached cautiously, with thick rope fenders over her
rubbing-streak to prevent the frail hull from being damaged. This
coming alongside other ships in the open sea, except in the very calmest
of weather, is a ticklish manoeuvre, and requires considerable skill
in the handling of these small and very fragile craft. What would be
considered quite a light blow on the stout hull of any ordinary ship
would crush in the thin timbers of a patrol launch, for in the
construction of these boats speed and shallow draught were the
predominant factors considered.
When the M.L. had been made fast on the lee-side of the derelict a
boarding party scrambled over the damaged bulwarks on to the sea-washed
deck. Here was a scene of chaos--rigging tangled and swinging loosely
from masts and yards; sails torn and shreds still clinging to ropes and
spars; loose planks of her deck cargo lying all over the place, and a
general air of abandon and desolation difficult to describe.
A mass of broken woodwork in the well of the ship was soon discovered to
be the remains of a deck-house, and this gave the first clue to the
reason for her sorry plight. Pieces of shrapnel were found sticking in
the timbers, and further search revealed shell-holes through the hull
and cut rigging. A signal was flying from the mizen halyards, and the
name on the counter, although spattered with shot, was still, in part,
decipherable--_Rickivik_, Copenhafen.
So the officer in charge of the boarding party commenced his report with
the name of the ship and the port from which she hailed, adding thereto
the evident fact that she had been heavily shelled--just a brief
statement which left to the imagination all the incidents and, alas!
tragedies of an unequal fight.
A high-explosive shell had struck the little raised poop, demolishing
the hatchway leading to the cabins beneath, and some heavy work with axe
and saw would have been necessary to obtain an entry had an easier way
not been available through the shattered skylight. In the low-roofed
cabin all was disorder. Tables and lockers were smashed, and the shell
which had burst overhead had filled the place with heavy broken timbers
from the deck above.
So low was the cabin roof of this small three-masted barque, and so dark
the interior, that it was difficult to see about. A lantern was procured
and a careful search commenced. The yellow light fell on drawers pulled
out and their contents--when worthless--flung on the floor; glasses and
bottles smashed and a quaint old China figure lying intact on the broken
timbers. But of the ship's papers there was no trace, with the single
exception of an old Bill of Health, issued six years previously in
Baltimore. Then the area of search moved from the cupboards and drawers
to the floor--broken by a shell which had evidently penetrated the
ship's stern and passed longitudinally through the cabin, exploding near
the base of the companion-hatch.
Presently a startled exclamation, followed by a call for the light, came
from the gloom around the stairway. Two of the boarding party searching
among the debris had stumbled across something which, instinctively,
sent a cold shiver through them. The light, when moved in that
direction, dimly revealed the body of a man lying face downwards on the
floor. Only the lower half of the figure was, however, visible, a mass
of shattered timbers having collapsed on the head and shoulders. That
life had been extinct for some considerable time was evidenced by the
sickly odour which hung heavily in the less ventilated parts of the
cabin, and the work of extricating the body was not commenced before the
whole ship had been searched for possible survivors.
This work occupied a considerable time, but nothing of importance was
discovered until a slight noise, not unlike the feeble, inarticulate cry
of a child in pain, came through the timbers from some distant part of
the hold. It was repeated several times, and the sailors, without
waiting for orders, set hastily to work to find out the cause.
The hatches were carefully removed, but only floating timber could be
seen. Then the sound came again. This time it was unmistakable and
relieved the tension. A little grim laugh from the searchers was
followed by much poking about with a long piece of wood on the surface
of the flooded hold under the decking, and some minutes later a large
pile of timber floated into the light from the open hatchway, supporting
a big tortoiseshell cat, looking very wet and emaciated. "Ricky"--for
such is her name now--proved to be the only living thing on that
ill-fated ship.
The boarding party returned to the cabin and commenced the objectionable
task of extricating the dead body from the mass of wreckage. The work
proceeded slowly, for the heavy broken timbers pressed mercilessly on
the object beneath, and when at last it lay revealed in the dim lantern
light its ghastly appearance caused all to step back in horror. It was a
headless corpse!