FROM OUT THE CLOUDS AND UNDER-SEAS
IT has already been shown that the science of aerial warfare is closely
allied with that of under-sea fighting. Airships and seaplanes play
important parts in all anti-submarine operations. They make very
efficient patrols and can detect the presence of both submarines and
mines under the surface.
During the Great War there were stations for armed aircraft all round
the British coast, and the patrols of the sea and air acted in close
co-operation. It often happened that one was able to render important
service to the other. An occasion such as this took place off an east
coast base in November, 1916.
SALVING AN AIRSHIP
A big car dashed up the wooden pier of a small seaport regardless of the
violent jolting from the uneven planking. It was pulled up with a jerk
when level with one of the little grey patrol boats known by the generic
name of M.L.'s, which was lying in the calm water alongside with its air
compressor pumping vigorously.
Two officers of the Royal Naval Air Service, with a P.O., carrying a
powerful Morse signalling lamp, jumped from the car and scrambled down
the wooden piles on to the deck of the M.L.
A nod from the commanding officer and the mooring ropes were cast off as
the telegraph was jammed over to "half ahead." Instantly the powerful
engines responded to the order and the little ship began rapidly to
gather way. When the harbour bar had been crossed the order for full
speed was given and the engines settled down to a low staccato roar as
they drove the M.L. over the heaving swell.
No word had yet been spoken between the officers of the sea and air. A
brief telephone message to the little hut on the quayside from the
adjacent naval base to the effect that M.L.A6 was to be ready to embark
two officers from the air station and was to proceed in search of an
airship which was foundering about twenty miles seawards was all that
had been told, and yet not a single second of time was lost in getting
under way. All recognised that it was a race to save the lives of men.
The little ship cleft the seas, smothering herself with foam, and bluish
fumes poured out of the engine-room ventilators. The first half-hour
seemed interminably long, and the horizon was continually searched with
the aid of powerful glasses for a sign of the wrecked airship. At last a
faint speck became visible away to the south-west, and as the distance
slowly lessened--terribly slowly, notwithstanding the speed of nearly
half-a-mile a minute--the crumpled envelope settling on the water could
be distinguished.
It was a question of minutes. Again the order was shouted down the
speaking-tube for more speed, but this time there was no reply. The C.O.
rang the telegraph viciously, but without result. The coxswain at the
wheel looked up quickly and then shouted an order to a deck hand, who
lowered himself down the tiny man-hole in the deck leading to the
engine-room. A few seconds later the second engineer appeared at the top
of the fo'c'sle hatch and, ducking to avoid a heavy shower of spray,
scrambled aft and peered down the man-hole, from which blue fumes,
somewhat thicker and more pungent than usual, were rising. The next
instant he too disappeared below.
The air officers were trying to get into communication with the rapidly
sinking airship by means of the powerful Morse lamp, but without result,
and one of them put his head into the wheel-house and asked anxiously if
more speed was possible.
Just then the second engineer and one of the crew crawled out of the
man-hole, pulling a limp figure behind them. The C.O. turned to
ascertain what had happened, and the men, very white and shaky,
explained in a few gasps that they had found the chief engineer
senseless at the bottom of the iron ladder leading up to the deck, and
had themselves been nearly gassed by the petrol fumes.
Glancing at the blue vapour now pouring up the hatchway and out of the
ventilators, the C.O. realised the risk of fire and explosion he ran by
carrying on at such high speed, but he also knew that men were drowning
in the sea some eight miles ahead, and that the few extra knots might
make the difference between life and death for them.
That the risk must be taken was a foregone conclusion, but how to keep
the engines running at that high speed without attention--for it was
evident that no man could live for many minutes in the poisonous
fumes--was a more difficult problem. This was solved, however, by the
second engineer volunteering to go below with a life-line attached, so
that he could be hauled up to the deck when giddiness came on. More than
once this gallant petty officer had to be pulled up choking and
exhausted. He risked instant death from the explosion of the gas from
the leaking and overheated pipes and engines, as well as suffocation
from the fumes, but he stuck to his post, returning again and again into
the poisonous atmosphere.
Darkness was gradually settling over the sea, and the flickering light
of the Morse lamp--still asking for a reply--made yellow streaks on the
wet fore-deck. Presently a faint speck of light blinked amid the dark
mass of the airship, but almost instantly went out, and for some time
nothing further was seen.
Barely three miles of heaving sea separated the two ships when the
bright glare of a Very's light, fired from a pistol, soared into the
air. A cheer broke from the dark figures on the deck of the M.L., and a
message of hope was eagerly flashed back.
The last knot seemed a voyage in itself, but eventually the great dark
mass of the still floating envelope loomed up ahead, and almost
instantly the clang of the engine-room telegraph, shutting off the leaky
engine, gave relief to the plucky second engineer, who had retained
consciousness and control through that dreadful twenty minutes by
frequently filling his aching lungs above the hatchway.
The sea around was a mass of tangled wires, in which the mast and
rigging of the M.L. was the first to become entangled. Near approach was
impossible, so orders were given to lower away the boat. The sturdy
little steel-built life-boat splashed into the sea alongside, one minute
rising on a wave high above the deck-line and the next disappearing into
the dark void below. Figures slid down the miniature falls to man her
and the next minute were pulling through the tangled wreckage to where
the beam of the M.L.'s searchlight showed six airmen clinging to a
floating but upturned cupola.
Numbed with the cold, they fell rather than jumped into the boat as it
was pulled alongside. One was insensible and the others were too far
gone to utter a word. Nothing but the wonderful vitality necessary to
the airman as to the sailor had enabled them to hold on in that bitter
cold for over two hours after eight hours in the air.
The task of extricating the M.L. from the tangle of wire stays and other
wreckage was a difficult one. A propeller had entwined itself and become
useless (afterwards freed by going astern), the little signal topmast
and yard had been broken off by a loop of wire from the gigantic
envelope and the ensign staff carried away. After about twenty minutes
cutting and manoeuvring, however, she floated free, and a question was
raised as to the possibility of salving the airship.
By this time another M.L., sent out to assist in the work of rescue, had
arrived on the scene, and a conference between the air and sea officers
on the senior ship resulted in the attempt at salving being made. Wires
that were hanging from the nose of the airship were made fast to the
stern of the M.L.'s, and all wreckage was, where possible, cut adrift.
This, to the uninitiated, may sound a comparatively quick and simple
operation, but when it is performed in the darkness, with the doubtful
aid of two small searchlights, on a sea rising and falling under the
influence of a heavy ground swell, it is anything but an easy or rapid
operation, and occupied half the night.
The huge mass of the modern airship towered above the little patrol
boats like some leviathan of the deep. To attempt its towage over twenty
miles of sea seemed almost ludicrous for such small craft, and yet so
light and easy of passage was this aerial monster that progress at the
rate of three knots an hour was made when once the wreckage had been cut
adrift, the weights released and the envelope had risen off the surface
of the water.
Armed trawlers that passed in the night wondered if it was a captive
zeppelin and winked out inquiries from their Morse lamps. A destroyer
came out of the darkness to offer assistance. The cause of much anxiety
had been the likelihood of hostile submarines being attracted to the
scene by the helplessness of the airship, which had been visible, before
darkness closed over, for many miles as she slowly settled down into the
sea. This danger, however, passed away with the arrival of the destroyer
and the armed trawlers, but another arose which threatened to wreck the
whole venture.
About 5 A.M. the wind began to freshen from the north-west and the
M.L.'s towing the huge bag were immediately dragged to leeward. The
combined power of their engines failed to head the airship into the wind
and urgent signals for assistance were made to the destroyer and
trawlers, who had, fortunately, constituted themselves a rear-guard.
A trawler came quickly to the rescue and got hold of an additional wire
hanging down from the envelope. The destroyer, in the masterful way of
these craft, proceeded to take charge of the operations. Her
9000-horse-power engines soon turned the airship into the path of
safety, and with this big addition to the towing power it was less than
half-an-hour later when the great envelope was safely landed on the
quayside, much to the amazement of the townspeople.
"UNLUCKY SMITH"
There is, however, another side to this co-operation between fleets of
the sea and air. It has more than once occurred that vessels equipped
almost exclusively for submarine hunting have been engaged by
zeppelins, and actions between seaplanes and under-water craft have been
frequent.
[Illustration: A MONITOR
The bulge of the "blister" will be seen on the water-line near the bow.
_British Official Photograph_]
How a large fleet of unarmed fishing vessels were saved and a zeppelin
raid on the east coast of England prevented by the timely action of an
armed auxiliary proves once again the truth of the old military axiom
that it is the unexpected which always happens in war.
It had been one of the few really hot summer days granted by a grudging
climate. The sea was a sheet of glass, the sky a cloudless blue, except
where tinged with the golden glow of sunset. Lieutenant Smith smiled
somewhat grimly as he mounted the little iron ladder and squeezed
through the narrow doorway into the wheel-house. He nodded to the
skipper--an old trawlerman acting as a chief warrant officer for
navigational duties--as a signal for the mooring ropes to be cast off,
and mechanically rang the engine-room telegraph. He had done all these
things in the same way and at the same time of day for nearly two years.
For a long while he had gone forth hopefully, saying to himself each
cruise, "It's bound to come soon," but as the weeks grew into months,
and the months promised to extend into years, disappointment gained the
mastery and duty became appallingly monotonous and uninteresting.
This, however, did not cause him to work less strenuously or to neglect
to watch the large fishing fleet which he guarded on four nights out of
the seven, but each letter he received from old friends in other
branches of the King's service brought tidings of excitement, rapid
promotion, or at least a little of the pomp and circumstance of war, and
he saw himself at the end of it all with nothing to show for years of
danger, hardship and impaired health. The worry and the lonely monotony,
trivial as he knew them to be, were slowly sapping his nerve and
vitality.
The trawler glided from the harbour on to the broad expanse of tranquil
sea, now aglow with the lights of a summer sunset. Slowly the coast-line
faded into the blue haze of distance, and all around the watery plain
was mottled with the shadowy patches made by the light evening breeze.
Settling himself in an old deck-chair, which he kept in the wheel-house,
Smith lit his pipe and allowed his thoughts to wander, but every now and
then his eyes would search the sea from slowly darkening east to mellow
west.
Although the summer was well advanced, there were but few hours of
darkness out of the twenty-four in these northern latitudes, and when
the armed trawler came in sight of the widely scattered fishing fleet,
which it was her duty to guard throughout the night, a mystic half-light
subdued all colours to a shadowy grey, but a pale amber afterglow still
lingered in the sky and the stars were pale.
Smith lingered a few minutes on deck to finish a cigar before going
below for his evening meal. Seldom during the past year had all the
elements been so long at peace, and the contrast appealed to him as a
luxury to be enjoyed at leisure. Even the light breeze of sunset had
died away, leaving an unruffled calm, and the sails and stumpy funnels
of the little fishing craft appeared like "painted ships on a painted
ocean."
For nearly an hour he sat inhaling the fragrant and satisfying smoke
from more than one cigar, preferring the cool of the deck to the stuffy
cabin. Then a dark blot appeared from out of the luminous blueness of
the eastern sky and it travelled rapidly downwards towards his flock.
Smith watched it for several seconds, then it suddenly dawned upon him
that the hand of the destroyer was coming even into this haven of peace,
and a fierce resentment entered his soul. He heard the distant shouting
of fishermen as they cut adrift their nets and prepared to scatter
before the approaching zeppelin, and in a moment he realised that the
long-awaited chance had come. It all seemed too unreal to be true, but
he rose up quickly and in a few terse sentences gave the necessary
orders for the guns' crews and engineers.
The whir of the airship's propellers grew rapidly louder and its bulk
loomed black against the bright sky. Determined, however, to take no
risk of failure, Lieutenant Smith withheld the fire of his guns until
the great aerial monster, now travelling down to less than 1000 feet,
was well within range.
Attracted by the helplessness of a large number of fishing craft
congregated in a comparatively small area of sea, the _destroyer_ dived
to the attack like some giant bird of prey, unable in the gloom which
shrouded the earth to distinguish the presence of an armed escort.
The suspense was painful. Then the muzzles of two high-angle guns rose
up from the well-deck and superstructure of the armed patrol, and in
response to a low-toned order from the C.O., giving the height, time and
deflection, they quickly covered the great black body of their
objective. Tongues of livid flame leapt from their mouths and were
followed by sharp reports. A few minutes of heavy firing and the nose of
the monster appeared to sag.
The men at the guns yelled exultantly, redoubling their efforts, and
shell after shell went shrieking heavenwards. Suddenly the sea around
rose up in huge cascades of foam and a shattering roar, which completely
dwarfed the voice of the guns, shook the small ship from stem to stern.
Everything movable was hurled across the deck. Breaking glass flew in
all directions, and the aerials at the mast-heads snapped and came
tumbling down with a mass of other gear. The cries of injured men arose
from different parts of the ship, but still the guns hurled their
shells, and the zeppelin, now well down by the head, rose high into the
upper air and made off eastwards. After dropping all her bombs in close
proximity to the armed trawler she had lightened herself sufficiently to
rise out of range, but whether or not she would be able to keep up
sufficiently long to reach her base, over 300 miles distant, was
extremely doubtful.
Flames spurted from the short funnel of the patrol as she steamed at
full speed after the retreating zeppelin, endeavouring to keep her
within range as long as possible. It was a question of seconds. Before
she finally disappeared in the increasing darkness another long-range
hit was observed and the zeppelin receded from view, drifting
helplessly.
The disappointment at not being able to give the _coup de grace_ to the
aerial destroyer was keenly felt by all on board, for a half success is
of little account in the navy. The gunners had done magnificently, the
ship had been manoeuvred correctly and four of the crew had been
wounded by fragments from the bombs dropped _en masse_, but
notwithstanding their exertions and the luck which had brought the
zeppelin down from the security of the skies, they had failed to secure
the prize legitimately theirs. That the attack on the fishing fleet had
been successfully beaten off appeared a minor detail, and the voyage
back to port in the quickening light of a beautiful summer morning was a
sad pilgrimage. Scarcely a word unnecessary for the working of the ship
was spoken, except Lieutenant Smith's brief explanation that it was just
his luck.
. . . . . . . .
About two weeks later the proverbially "unlucky Smith" was ordered to
report at the office of the Admiral Commanding, and he had a sharp
struggle to maintain a becoming composure when he heard the terse
compliment and the mention of a recommendation from that austere
officer, coupled with the intelligence that the zeppelin had dropped
into the sea off the coast of Norway.
The spell was broken, and the brisk step and gleam in his dark eyes told
their own tale as he walked quickly back to his ship.