HER LAST BOLT
IT was a formidable trap. Already there was less than seven miles
between the jaws of these rapidly closing pincers as the two
divisions of hostile torpedo-craft steamed towards each other. To
make matters more unpleasant a Zeppelin--a comparatively rare bird in
the latter stages of the Great War--appeared from the east'ard,
possibly from the airsheds at Tondern, and without venturing to make
a direct attack was evidently communicating by wireless with the
torpedo boats.
"Hoist our Ensign!" ordered Morpeth. "That'll show 'em we aren't
going to take it lying down. We'll give them a run for their money."
Up rose the White Ensign bravely in the breeze. Simultaneously came
the tell-tale bark of a torpedo. With a quick movement of her helm Q
171 avoided the missile, but even as she did so another torpedo came
hissing under the waves. To avoid the new menace by alteration of
course was impossible. The Q-boat carried too much way to reverse and
gather sternway in time. To Meredith, standing by the after
quick-firer, the sight of the approaching torpedo was a
nerve-thrilling one. Gripping the rail, he watched its approach as it
headed almost under that part of the deck on which he stood.
Mechanically he gripped the wire and waited. He could do nothing: not
even run a few paces in order to avoid, if possible, the direct
effect of the explosion. He felt much as the French aristocrats must
have felt when they lay strapped to the bed of the guillotine waiting
for the fatal knife to fall....
"How much longer?" he thought. "How much----"
"Stand by with the depth-charges," roared Morpeth, as Q 171 swung
round and made straight for the spot where the twin periscopes of a
U-boat were disappearing.
The torpedo had been aimed truly, save in one respect. The commander
of the U-boat had gauged the draught of the mystery ship by that of
his own craft, forgetting that, although above water Q 171 resembled
a German submarine, her depth beneath the water-line was only seven
feet six inches. The missile had travelled harmlessly under her to
finish its run three miles beyond.
Outboard toppled the two metal canisters. At the speed of an express
train the reel of wire ran out; then, with a detonation that
threatened to shake every rivet in the Q-boat's hull, the
depth-charges exploded simultaneously.
There was no time to investigate whether the U-boat had been
destroyed, or whether, with buckled plates and gaping seams, she was
blowing her tanks in an attempt to reach the surface. In any case,
even if she did survive, her crew would be so shaken by the
concussion that they would be "down and out" as far as further
submarine work was concerned.
The shrill whine of a 6-inch shell drew attention to the fact that
the destroyers were getting within range, and that a "registering
shot" had been fired to test the accuracy of their range-finder.
Almost immediately after, and before a second flash came from the
nearmost torpedo boat, Q 171 liberated her smoke-screen; then,
answering rapidly to her helm, spun round and practically retraced
her course.
There was a chance of escape--that of making for Danish waters--but
Morpeth scorned the idea. As he had remarked, he meant to give Fritz
a run for his money. He would go down with flying colours, biting
savagely till the last. And his men were with him. Discarding their
black oilskin coats, and tightening their belts, they spat upon their
hands after the manner of sailor-men and prepared to take their
gruelling.
An artificial fog-screen cannot last indefinitely. Sooner or later Q
171 had to emerge from her concealment. When she did she was steering
almost due west, or towards the tail of the seven torpedo boats.
Directly the movement was observed, the Huns turned sixteen degrees
to port, all firing as they swung round. At the same moment Q 171's
quick-firers replied for the first time.
The bark of her own guns eased the tension amongst the crew. Although
outnumbered, they realised that there was some satisfaction in being
able to reply.
The Q-boat took her punishment grimly--and it was punishment!
Several shells of varying calibre hit her in quick succession. The
dummy conning-tower had vanished, all but a few bent and twisted
steel girders. Acrid-smelling fumes swept down upon Meredith as he
assisted the last member of the after quick-firer to load and train
the weapon. Through the eddying vapour he could see men feverishly
working the other gun. He fancied he could distinguish Wakefield, but
he was not sure... And Morpeth: where was he?
Suddenly Meredith felt his legs give way under him. The sensation was
akin to that of receiving an unexpected blow behind the knees.
Surprised and resentful, he tried to regain his feet. Some one was
lying across them. It was Ainslie--or rather all that was left of
Ainslie.
For perhaps twenty seconds Meredith lay on the deck striving to
recollect where he was and how he came there. A red mist swam before
his eyes, then it cleared, and he saw Ainslie's body once more.
There were rents on the deck. The whole fabric of the vessel was
throbbing under the continued concussions. Q 171 was turning in a
wide circle to starboard, exposing the whole of her broadside to the
hostile fire.
With an effort Meredith freed his legs, and by the aid of the
shoulder-piece of the now silent after quick-firer regained his feet.
As he did so a man, grimy and blood-stained, lurched aft.
"Cap'n's down, sir," he reported. "Steering-gear carried away....
There's the hand-gear, sir."
Heavens! Morpeth down, Ainslie killed, Wakefield nowhere to be seen.
The responsibility of fighting Q 171 to a finish had fallen upon the
supernumerary, Sub-lieutenant Kenneth Meredith.
Staggering right aft, the Sub, assisted by the bluejacket who had
reported to him, contrived to unshackle the useless wires from the
heavy tiller. Then in answer to a powerful heave on the metal bar the
boat began to swing once more to port.
Standing up, Meredith gave directions by gesture to the emergency
helmsman. It was impossible to be understood otherwise, so terrific
was the din, and, apart from that, Meredith's throat was so dry that
he was unable to utter a sound.
Rapidly the Sub took in the situation. Morpeth's idea was to "cross
the tee" of the approaching line of torpedo boats, which had changed
their course so that the rearmost boat was now leading the flotilla.
The demolition of the steering-gear, and Morpeth being knocked out of
action, had temporarily thwarted the manoeuvre, but there was yet
time to mend matters. The steady pulsations of the motors showed that
below decks the badly battered vessel was still making good. For'ard
a solitary gun was barking at wide intervals, keeping up a sullen and
determined show of defiance. Otherwise the whole length of deck
resembled, as far as the eddying smoke permitted, a gaunt and hideous
charnel-house.
"Fritz has got to have it in the neck," thought Meredith. "Here
goes!"
Conning the still swiftly moving Q-boat, he made straight for the
leading German vessel. The latter held stubbornly on her course, at
the same time masking the fire of her consorts astern.
It was a tense moment. Approaching at a speed of about sixty miles an
hour, the two vessels, British and German, were heading to mutual
destruction. With telescoped bows and interlocked framework, they
would assuredly founder together in a common and awe-inspiring
dissolution.
But almost at the last moment the nerve of the German commander
failed. He ported his helm in a vain attempt to avoid the despairing
act of a mad Englishman. He was too late. Meredith held on.
It was true that the kapitan-leutnant of the V 199 saved the bows of
his boat from being telescoped, but by giving the vessel starboard
helm he had neglected the important fact that the stern would swing
to starboard more rapidly than the bows would turn to port.
Almost before he was aware of the fact, the bows of Q 171 bit deeply
into the German torpedo boat's quarter. The shock was lighter than
the Sub expected: it was the tortional wrench that hurled him
sideways against the disabled quick-firer.
Then, swinging outwards under the way carried by her opponent, Q 171
literally levered the partly severed stern away from the rest of the
rammed torpedo boat. With a gurgling sound, audible above the hiss of
steam from the flooding engine-room, the after-part of the Hun boat
sank, leaving two-thirds of the hull floating almost motionless and
kept afloat solely by the badly strained bulkheads.
Freed from the interlocking embrace, Q 171 drifted clear, but she was
no longer under control. Both her propellers had fouled some of the
wreckage, and the bosses were stripped clear of their phosphor-bronze
blades.
The gallant mystery ship, with the White Ensign flying from her
stumpy mast--how it withstood that tornado of hurtling metal was
little short of miraculous--was doomed.
But the end was not yet. The second enemy torpedo boat, unable to
bring her guns to bear lest she should hit her disabled consort, was
manoeuvring to obtain a favourable position to deliver the _coup de
grâce_. It seemed an easy thing to do, for Q 171 was little better
than a floating scrap-heap.
Suddenly, from what appeared to be a tangle of riddled steel-plating
and grotesquely twisted girders, a gleaming steel cylinder flashed in
the sunlight.
Q 171 had shot her last bolt. One of the torpedo-tubes was still
intact, and a grievously wounded man had seized his chance.
Fifteen seconds later the torpedo got home, literally blowing the Hun
in twain.
Meredith saw the Q-boat's last blow. Defiantly, almost exultantly, he
drew himself to full height, then a blinding flash seemed to leap
from beneath his feet, and he toppled unconscious upon the deck.