BATTERED BUT UNDAUNTED
"FORE-CONTROL, there! Anything to report?"
It was ten and a half hours after the light-cruiser squadron had left
Auldhaig. At thirty knots the light cruisers were approaching the
rendezvous mentioned in their sealed orders--orders that were no
longer secret, since they were opened and communicated within one
hour of clearing harbour.
On either side of the cruisers, which were steaming in double column
line ahead, were the destroyers--long, lean, and eager to be released
from the leash that held them to that comparatively modest thirty
knots.
For the sixth time in the last hour the Commodore had asked the
question. His impatience was natural. Visibility was good, and from
the lofty eerie of the fore-control platform a wide expanse of
horizon lay revealed.
Before the fore-control could reply, the navigating lieutenant, who
was standing by the Commodore on the bridge, threw back his head and
listened intently.
Above the whine of the wind past the tautened wire shrouds and
sagging aerials came a long, low rumble.
"Gunfire!" he announced laconically, yet there was keen anticipation
in his tone.
"Quick-firers," added the gunnery lieutenant.
"Suppose it's too much to expect--to find Fritz's battle fleet out?"
remarked the navigator. "We'd shake 'em up a bit, I reckon."
The Commodore smiled at the subordinate's enthusiasm for a
"hussar-stroke" of the light, swiftly-moving vessels against the
heavily-armoured battleships of Germany.
"We'll think ourselves more than lucky if their light cruisers are
out," he replied. "Lucky if there are only destroyers. If----"
He broke off abruptly to receive a message through a voice-tube.
"Good enough," he replied. "Increase speed to thirty-four," he
ordered. "Keep her as she is, Quartermaster."
"Is it they, sir?" asked the gunnery lieutenant.
"Look-out has reported a smoke-screen dead ahead," replied the
Commodore. "We'll be seeing the enemy ships above the horizon in a
few minutes."
"Then my name's Johnny Walker, sir," said the gunnery officer
whimsically, as he hurried off to his post to superintend the firing
of the long-distance salvoes.
A signal was hoisted to the signal-yard arm of the flagship. Hardly
had it appeared ere a similar hoist appeared "at the dip" on every
ship of the squadron--there to pause for a brief instant before being
hauled "close up."
It was a signal well understood, although the opportunities for its
use were few and far between. It signified "Enemy in sight; prepare
to open fire."
"Enemy torpedo boats beating east by north, sir," came the welcome
news. "Heavy firing from the leading boats." Then, fifty seconds
later: "One blown up, sir.... Another on fire."
Moments of suspense followed. Would the Huns, intent upon battering
the vessel that the approaching flotillas were bent upon rescuing,
spot the presence of the British light cruisers and destroyers before
they drew within effective range?
Up in the fire-control station the range-finding officer was calling
out the range, much like an intonation: "Twelve thousand yards...
eleven thousand yards... ten thousand----"
A flash, immediately followed by a loud report, gave very audible
warning that the flagship had opened the ball. The officers and men
on the bridge could follow the flight of the spinning projectile,
until it was lost to sight in the blue atmosphere. But they knew it
was hurtling and climbing to an immense height, thence to drop, still
with terrific speed, until it burst where, according to the highest
efforts of ballistic science, and when it was intended to do--to the
detriment, physical and moral, of the King's enemies.
Simultaneously the leading light cruiser of the port division opened
fire, the following vessel executing an echelon manoeuvre in order
that they too could join in the grim carnival of battle and sudden
death.
The hitherto flanking destroyers were now, with two exceptions, far
ahead, one division steering east by south in order to cut off, if
possible, the enemy's retreat behind the Heligoland batteries; the
other was pelting east-north-east to frustrate Fritz's flight round
the northernmost point of Denmark. The exceptions were the T.B.D.'s
_Pylos_ and _Polyxo_, on board of which their officers fumed in
impatient and excusable wrath while sweating engine-room artificers
were desperately striving to effect repairs to defective condensers.
So at a modest fifteen, soon afterwards increased to twenty-two,
knots, the _Pylos_ and _Polyxo_ followed their more fortunate
competitors in the "Fritz Stakes." To all appearances they were "out
of it" and numbered amongst the "Also Rans." Yet they held on, hoping
like Mr. Wilkins Micawber that something might turn up.
Already Fritz had turned tail. Under cover of a heavy smoke-screen
the remaining Hun torpedo boats were "legging it," steering zig-zag
courses in order to avoid, if possible, the long-range shells that
followed with uncanny accuracy. And they were steering neither for
the Bight nor for the Kattegat. The Zeppelin, that had been hovering
around throughout the operations, had given warning of the
outflanking British destroyers, and they were making for a place of
security which is recognised as such by the navies of the world save
that of Germany--the three-mile limit of a neutral seaboard.
The light cruisers opened outwards to avoid the far-flung line of
artificially-created fog. It was unwise to penetrate that screen. A
Hun torpedo boat at bay might seize an opportunity to "slap a
tinfish" into an opponent at close range, or U-boats might be lurking
in the fringe of the pall to claim a victim.
The _Pylos_ and the _Polyxo_, jogging along, held straight on. By the
time they reached the fog-screen the smoke would have lifted, and
there was a chance that they might pick up some of the light
cruisers' leavings in the shape of a few Huns.
It so happened that a sudden dispersal of a part of the smoke-screen
under the steady westerly breeze revealed to the _Polyxo_ what
appeared to be an intact hostile torpedo boat with her engines broken
down. She was still flying the Black Cross Ensign.
Gleefully the destroyer altered helm, let fly with her bow
quick-firer, and prepared to send Fritz to the bottom by means of a
torpedo.
But Fritz objected. He had had no compunction at firing, together
with half a dozen of his kind, at a solitary British Q-boat; and he
had been considerably surprised when the Q-boat had chopped off
twenty or thirty feet of her stern. But when a destroyer suddenly
loomed out of the fog, the panic-stricken kapitan-leutnant promptly
gave orders to lower the Black Cross Ensign and substitute one that
was as blank and pale as his face.
While the officers and men of the _Polyxo_ were enjoying a
performance of the "Kamerad" order, the _Pylos_, slower than her
consort, butted up against what she took to be at first sight a Hun
submarine, down by the head and with practically all her top hamper
gone. From her mast-head hung a flag, tattered, torn and dun-coloured
by smoke and dust.
"By Jove!" ejaculated the astonished lieutenant-commander of the
_Pylos_. "It's Q 171."
Every officer and man on board the destroyer had been firmly
convinced that the mystery ship had been sunk. Indeed it seemed
incredible that the lightly-built vessel could have withstood a
hammering from half a dozen relatively heavily-armed ocean-going
torpedo boats, and yet remain afloat.
On the Q-boat's deck were standing ten or twelve grimy men, stripped
to the waist, and for the most part wearing bandages. There were
others--some sitting with their heads supported by their hands,
others stretched motionless.
"Pass the word for the surgeon," ordered the lieutenant-commander, as
he rang for "half-speed" and then "stop."
Adroitly manoeuvred, the _Pylos_ ran alongside the cruelly battered
Q-boat and made fast. A sub-lieutenant, the surgeon and a dozen hands
boarded the disabled boat.
"Not an officer left standing, sir," reported a chief petty officer,
whose rank was indicated only by a battered peak cap set at a raking
angle on his head and partly counterbalanced by a stained bandage.
The rest of his attire consisted of a pair of trousers hanging in
shreds below the knees, and the remains of a singlet that failed to
conceal a lacerated wound on the man's broad chest. "And only a
handful of us--mostly engine-room ratings."
Leaving the doctor and his assistants to deal with their grim and
stupendous task, the sub-lieutenant proceeded to investigate the
state of the ship. A decision had to be arrived at with the utmost
promptitude--whether she should be sunk or steps taken to tow her
back across the North Sea.
Her bows were battered and the for'ard compartment flooded. Beyond
that she seemed fairly water-tight. Her engine-room was practically
intact, although there were several gaping holes just above the
water-line.
"I think we can save her yet," decided the Sub--a lad of nineteen,
with the mature judgment of one who has seen three years of naval
warfare.
He made his way aft, encountering the surgeon.
"A hard case, Pills," he remarked. "How many casualties?"
"Seventeen killed," was the reply. "Nine wounded. The disparity shows
that she must have had a gruelling. There are only eight men fit to
carry on, and most of them have scratches or are shaken up by the
concussion. There are three officers right aft--all badly knocked
about."
Lying side by side, close to the disabled after quick-firer, were
Morpeth, Wakefield and Meredith. A short distance away was all that
was mortal of young Ainslie.
Morpeth was unconscious, his left arm shattered below the elbow and
his skull laid bare by a fragment of shell. Wakefield, already under
the influence of morphia, was lying on his back, staring blankly at
the tattered White Ensign. Aware that something was wrong with him,
he was ignorant of the fact that four pieces of German shells were
finding a temporary lodging in his body. For the present, he was
serenely happy--not solely on account of the morphia injection, but
because he realised that he had "seen it through," and that Q 171 was
still flying the flag that symbolises the real Freedom of the Seas.
Next to him was Kenneth Meredith, his bandaged head supported on a
coir fender. Seeing the destroyer's sub-lieutenant, he made an effort
to rise.
"Now lie still, my lad," said the doctor kindly, but authoritatively.
"You can tell us all about it when we get you in the sick bay."
He turned to his companion.
"That youngster's got something on his chest that he wants to get rid
of," he remarked. "I can't make out what he wants. P'raps you can. It
will relieve his mind." The Sub of the _Pylos_ knelt by Meredith's
side.
"Well, what is it?" he asked.
Kenneth moved his lips in a vain endeavour to speak.
"This won't hurt him, I suppose?" inquired the sub-lieutenant,
producing a spirit flask.
"Only a small nip," replied the doctor, as he busied himself with
another case.
Kenneth drank the proffered brandy. The spirit put fresh life into
him. He raised himself and pointed below, but no words came from his
lips.
The Sub of the _Pylos_ looked puzzled.
"It's all right," he replied soothingly. "She's as tight as a bottle.
We'll tow her in yet."
Meredith shook his head.
"I'm on the wrong tack evidently," thought the Sub. "I wonder if he
can write down what he wants."
He handed Kenneth a pencil and notebook. The wounded officer took
them eagerly and, with trembling fingers feebly grasping the pencil,
he wrote:
"Prisoners still below."
"Good enough," exclaimed the other. "I'll see to that."
Kenneth smiled, closed his eyes, and relapsed into unconsciousness.
* * * * *
Accompanied by a couple of hands, the sub-lieutenant of the _Pylos_
went below and hurried aft.
Stretched at full length in the narrow alley-way was one of the
mystery ship's crew. He had been detailed at the commencement of the
action to mount guard outside the compartment in which von Preugfeld
and von Loringhoven had been placed. His orders were, in the event of
the ship beginning to sink, to liberate the prisoners and give them
an equal chance with their captors of saving their lives.
Unknown to the rest of the crew, the sentry had been rendered
insensible, apparently by concussion only, for no marks of injury
were visible.
They found the key of the compartment lying on the floor within a few
inches of the man's hand, but no amount of persuasion could shoot
back the wards of the lock. They had jammed possibly through the same
shock that had rendered the bluejacket unconscious.
"Stand clear inside there!" shouted the Sub warningly; then, placing
the muzzle of his revolver a few inches off the door, he fired and
shattered the lock.
The sight which met his eyes was an unexpected one. Ober-leutnant
Hans von Preugfeld was lying on his back with a ghastly wound in his
chest. Even in death his heavy Prussian features looked grim and
forbidding.
In the far corner von Loringhoven was leaning against the bulkhead,
pale-faced and terror-stricken, with three fingers of his right hand
torn away.
"You're all right, old bean!" exclaimed the sub-lieutenant of the
_Pylos_. "You'll enjoy the hospitality of Donnington Hall yet. Come
along and let's see what our doc. can do for you."
In spite of every precaution that Morpeth had taken to safeguard his
prisoners, Nemesis in the shape of a German shell had overtaken von
Preugfeld. Placed for his protection as far below the water-line as
possible, the ober-leutnant had been slain by a three-pounder shell,
which, without exploding, had penetrated Q 171's side about two feet
above the water-line. Glancing from the underside of the metal base
of one of the triple torpedo-tubes, the missile had been deflected
downwards. Penetrating the roof of the prisoners' cell, the pointed
missile had gone completely through von Preugfeld's body and had
ended its career by pulverising von Loringhoven's fingers and jamming
the door.
By the time the Sub returned to the deck the work of rendering first
aid to the wounded was accomplished. The _Polyxo_, having transferred
the German crew as prisoners from the torpedo boat that Q 171 had
rammed, was engaged in sending to the bottom the still floating
portion. Already the light cruisers were returning, having been
robbed of the fruits of complete victory by their foe taking shelter
in neutral waters.
Twenty minutes later Q 171, taken in tow by the _Pylos_, was on her
way back to Britannia's shores.