A BIG PROPOSITION
"KNOW anything about motor bikes?" inquired Morpeth, helping himself
to a liberal chunk of margarine and pushing the earthenware jar
across to his companion. "After you with the jam. Thank heaven it's
not the everlasting plum and apple!"
Meredith and the "owner" of Q 171 were at tea in the ward-room.
Wakefield was taking deck duties in conjunction with the Q-boat's
official sub-lieutenant--a youth of twenty, Ainslie by name.
Tea was served in war time fashion afloat--an iron-moulded
table-cloth, two enamelled cups, plates of the same material, and
wooden-handled steel knives that had evidently not made the
acquaintance of a knife-board since they came aboard. A loaf of large
and decidedly ancient appearance, a pot of jam and a generous pat of
margarine (referred to in conversation as nut-butter) formed the
edible part of the feast. Black, strongly brewed tea, condensed milk
and moist sugar in more senses than one combined to provide liquid
refreshment. The whole contents of the swing table were executing a
rhythmic dance with the vibrations of the twin engines, the propeller
shafts of which ran under and on either side of the table.
"I have one," replied Meredith. "At least I believe I have--unless
my young brother has pinched it," he added feelingly and with the
knowledge of past experiences. "Why?"
"Rather curious to know what you paid for it?" replied Morpeth.
"As a matter of fact I got it a great bargain from a pal of mine who
was given a commission in '15," replied Meredith. "Twenty-two
pounds."
"I guess I can beat that," remarked the R.N.R. officer, deliberately
and deftly harpooning a slice of bread in the act of skimming over
the fidleys on to the floor. "I bought one for a sovereign."
"Scrap iron, then," declared Kenneth.
"No; in good running order," continued Morpeth, "twin cylinders,
magneto, countershaft, kick starter and all that sort of
fake-a-lorum. True, the old 'bus had been in the ditch for a
fortnight. Do you remember when the old _Tantalus_ was torpedoed some
while back? They got her into shallow water down Cornwall. Well, this
motor bike was on board. Bought it from a chap called Farrar, who
told me he had bought it from a marine officer for four bob and had
refused a fiver for it as the vessel was sinking. Spent best part of
seven days' leave cleaning the thing up, and now, by Jove!----"
"You're wanted on deck, sir," exclaimed a sailor excitedly. "We've
just sighted two men in the ditch----"
Taking a hasty and copious gulp of tea on the principle that "you
never know when you may get another chance," Lieutenant-Commander
Morpeth ran up the ladder, Meredith only hanging back sufficiently to
clear the heels of the R.N.R. officer's seaboots.
The mystery ship had already slowed down and altered course. Men,
grasping coiled bowlines, were grouped on her long narrow bows.
Ainslie, standing well for'ard, was conning the ship by movements of
his arms. Wakefield, binoculars to his eyes, was keeping the men in
distress under observation.
"A pair of Huns!" he exclaimed, as Morpeth and Meredith joined him.
"They're clinging to a U-boat's buoy. I can see the number 'U 247'
painted on it."
"One of our submarines has been busy, then," remarked Morpeth. "Hope
to goodness she doesn't jolly well take it into her head to slap a
tinfish into us."
Wakefield shrugged his shoulders. This was another phase of U-boat
tactics. When a fellow rigs himself up like a Fritz to bag a Fritz,
presumably he must run the risk of being taken for a genuine Fritz by
other Fritz-hunters. He glanced at Morpeth inquiringly. The R.N.R.
man's face was set and determined.
Above the risks of war another issue dominated. Human life was at
stake, not in the heat of battle but in the ceaseless struggle of man
with the sea--a fight that has been waged ever since men adventured
themselves upon the waters. Friends or foemen made no difference:
Morpeth was determined to pluck the two distressed men from the grip
of the voracious sea.
The swimmers were Ober-leutnant Hans von Preugfeld and Unter-leutnant
Eitel von Loringhoven. More than an hour had elapsed since they had
been ruthlessly jettisoned by the mutineers. Their chances of being
picked up were small indeed. Had it not been for the fact that one of
the U-boat's crew, more humane than the rest, had surreptitiously
released a life-buoy from the starboard side of the submarine--he had
done this just before the two officers were hurled overboard--von
Preugfeld and von Loringhoven would have perished. As it was, the
support afforded by the cylindrical hollow metal buoy had kept both
afloat, although they were almost exhausted by the numbing cold.
Slowing down until she carried bare steerage way, Q 171's bows passed
within three yards of the life-buoy and the two men. A bowline,
thrown with admirable judgment and precision, fell over the
unter-leutnant's head, but von Loringhoven was too exhausted to slip
his arms and shoulders through the looped line. Without hesitation,
the bluejacket who had hurled the coil of rope thrust the tail end
into the hands of a man standing next to him.
"Hold hard, mate!" he exclaimed, as he took a flying leap over the
low stanchion rail.
Deftly the rescuer adjusted the bowline under von Loringhoven's
shoulders, and with a stentorian "Heave away roundly!" he swung
himself back to the Q-boat's fo'c'sle.
In another fifteen seconds two dripping and water-logged individuals
joined the rescuer.
Kapitan von Preugfeld, gasping like a stranded carp, was speechless
with exhaustion and astonishment. Up to that moment he had been
deceived into believing that the vessel that had effected his rescue
was a U-boat. He was still hazy on that point, but there was no
shadow of doubt that the crew were British.
"Give the blighters a stiff glass of grog and shove them into hot
blankets," ordered Morpeth. "I'll see them later and find out how
they came to be in the ditch."
But von Preugfeld, recovering his speech, was anxious to explain
matters at once. The thought paramount in his mind was that of
revenge. It mattered not by what motive or through whose agency
retribution was accomplished as long as the mutineers were accounted
for.
"I kapitan am of _Unterseebooten_ 247," he announced in his broken
English. "My crew haf mutiny make an' throw me into der zee. Der
submarine is dere"--he pointed eastwards--"not von hour an' half
gone."
"Peculiar bird," thought Morpeth, then--"Good enough, cap'n," he
replied. "We'll be on her track. With luck she'll be scrap iron
before night."
"No, no," protested von Preugfeld. "Do not to der bottom send. Make
capture. I tink not dat she can sink."
"Won't she," interrupted the R.N.R. officer grimly. "You leave that
to us."
"He means 'submerge,' I fancy," remarked Wakefield.
"Ach! Dat is so. She submerge cannot make. Take prisoners dose
mutineer sailors."
"What's he driving at, Wakefield?" inquired Morpeth. "Hanged if I can
cotton on to the yarn."
"He apparently wants to get his own back," suggested Wakefield. "A
true type of the egotistical, arrogant Prussian. D'ye notice he never
referred to his fellow victim of the mutiny. Perhaps they got what
they jolly well deserved."
"No business of mine," quoth the R.N.R. man. "Sinking Fritzes is my
job. Take that fellow below, Walters."
He jerked his thumb in the direction of the fore hatchway, whither
von Loringhoven had already been escorted; but von Preugfeld had
another card to play.
"Englisch officers der are on board der submarine," he declared.
"Four officers prisoners--nein, it is three," and he held up three
fingers to emphasise the fact.
Except to serve his own ends, von Preugfeld would not have mentioned
the fact. It mattered nothing to him whether the prisoners were sent
to the bottom inside the hull of the U-boat if she were destroyed by
the British craft; but as a lever to influence Morpeth's decision, in
order to enable von Preugfeld to take vengeance on the mutineers at
some distant date, the Prussian blurted out the disconcerting news.
Almost at the same time he realised that the situation was a
complicated one. There was the question of the spy, von Preussen. The
R.A.F. officers would, on their release, certainly demand an
explanation of their supposed comrade's whereabouts, and then the spy
would be revealed in his true character. It would be
awkward--decidedly awkward--for von Preussen, but in his
vindictiveness against the mutineering crew von Preugfeld swept aside
the question. He had little qualms in sacrificing von Preussen to
attain his immediate aim.
"What officers are they?" demanded Morpeth. He pictured the plight of
master mariners of Mercantile Marine held captive on board the
submarine that had sent their vessel to the bottom--hostages who,
contrary to all the recognised canons of war, had been compelled to
run a grave risk of being slaughtered by their fellow countrymen
while in the hold of a modern pirate submarine.
"Von der Air Regiment at Auldhaig," replied von Preugfeld. "It fair
capture vos," he hastened to explain.
"We know most of them," exclaimed Meredith. "I wonder who they are?"
Morpeth as inquisitor-in-chief put the question, but von Preugfeld
shook his head and professed ignorance on the matter.
With a gesture Morpeth dismissed him. Shivering with cold and
trembling with rage, the kapitan of U 247 disappeared below, to enjoy
a far greater hospitality than he had ever bestowed upon his
prisoners of war.
Meanwhile Q 171, running at thirty knots, was fast overhauling the
mutineers. In forty minutes after von Preugfeld's rescue the
conning-tower of the fugitive was sighted at a distance of five
miles.
Morpeth immediately rang down for fifteen knots. The enormous speed
of the Q-boat would be sufficient to cause surprise and suspicion in
the minds of the U-boat's crew, and supposing it were another
submarine which could dive and succeed in getting away, then the
story of a decoy capable of attaining a terrific pace would be known
to the German Admiralty. In that case Morpeth's "little stunt" would
bid fair to become a "wash-out."
Ten minutes later the White Ensign was hoisted at Q 171's masthead,
and a shell, purposely fired wide, threw up a column of water fifty
yards from the U-boat's port bow.
"That's done the trick," exclaimed Wakefield, as a white flag was
promptly hoisted on the mutineer. "It's 'Kamerad' all the time when
they're cornered. By Jove! the old blighter did speak the truth for
once. There are fellows in khaki standing aft."
Morpeth merely grunted. He was pondering in his mind--not on the
question of how to deal with his prize, but one on which weightier
matters depended. It meant an addition of thirty odd people to feed
and quarter--a big proposition indeed.