‘EXERCISE ATTACKS’
It has already been pointed out that breakfast in the Parentis was a meal of Spartan severity. Moreover, the breakfasters were divided into three distinct classes. During the remainder of the day the members of these different orders descended to the level of the common herd and were as other men. But when the fateful hour of eight a.m. came round again, they picked up the broken threads of their lives, and for one brief hour held chillily aloof from those of other and (according to the point of view) less distinguished bodies.
The most elevated of these orders consisted of those few habitually early risers, who, having shaved and bathed at the grisly hour of 7.15, loomed heavily into the ward room with severe countenances and majestic mien, each a procession in himself. In sepulchral tones they ordered eggs, and taking up a strategic position with their backs to the fire, produced books from their pockets and read in heavy silence, with one eye cocked doorwards whence breakfast would appear.
On the arrival of food they took their seats in awful majesty, nodded to one another across the table, and attacked their eggs without further preamble. The actions of the noble-minded of this earth are often mysteries to its more humble inhabitants. But Conscia mens recti may do these things and prosper.
To arrest public attention, man must be eccentric, but even greatness has its penalties, and of these the discomfort attendant on eccentricity is by no means one of the least.
Consequently the second, and by far the most numerous, school of breakfasters, comprised the ‘plebs’ or rabble, who drifted in at any time between eight-twenty and a quarter to nine, having risen and dressed with decorum, and at the hour when a normal Christian should.
Its adherents held a brighter view of life; occasionally they spoke, and rumour whispered that once in the dim ages, far back in the twilight of history, a member of this low caste has even been known to laugh!
The third and last clan, which was very popular with certain members of the mess, rivalled in fame its more ascetic brethren who aspired to be ‘healthy, wealthy, and wise.’ Its devotees, having remained in bed until the last minute, fled in terror to the bathroom, visions of pyjamas and flying towels, and presently burst wild-eyed into the mess, still buttoning their monkey jackets about them. In panic-stricken tones they ordered food and (if the table had not already been cleared) fell upon the viands in the manner of drowning men to whom help had come when hope had been foregone.
For the remainder of the forenoon the ward room would be filled with the bitter complaints of the less fortunate of these late-comers. Complaints to the effect that ‘they never could get any breakfast in this wretched ship,’ and of the futility and feebleness of the calls given them by their respective Marine servants.
A new member coming to the mess grasped the situation at his first meal, and felt it a point of unwritten law and honour to continue membership in whichever body chance had happened to place him. He resented those who altered their morning habits and broke through the magic circle, and showed his displeasure by word or look, according to the traditions of the body to which he belonged.
Thus it was that Raymond, who was a member of the ‘plebs,’ having risen unusually early, was met with severe and threatening looks as he took his seat at the table. The fluttering in the dove-cotes was barely stilled when, horror, another intruder arrived on the scene of mastication. As if this were not sufficient outrage in itself, the breakers of the peace seemed in good humour with the world and actually dared to talk! With frigid looks the early risers hastily finished their meal and retired with ruffled dignity.
One only remained whose curiosity had got the better of his wounded feelings. For a while he listened to what the others were saying in the hopes of obtaining a clue to the mystery without having to resort to the self-abasement of asking questions, but as nothing was spoken of that would help him in that direction he was forced to swallow his pride. Presently he looked up from the book he was pretending to read and grunted with disgust.
‘Up early,’ he began, nodding at Raymond.
‘Yes,’ replied that worthy brightly. ‘Practice attacks.’
The curious one sat up and took professional notice.
‘One of the world’s workers this morning, eh? Who’s giving you a run?’
‘Jenkins, here. His T.B.’s alongside now, so I asked him to come aboard and have a drop of breakfast with me.’
‘Now I come to think of it, I heard Jinks’s falsetto when I was in my bath. He made rather a mess of coming alongside, I thought, and I suppose he was mentioning it to any one who cared to listen to him.’
‘Made a mess of it, be blowed!’ cried the irate Jenkins. ‘You try a combination of tide, and a fool at the wheel at seven in the morning, and then you’ll realise what I’ve had to put up with.’
‘I have, my lad, I have. My heart went out to you when I heard the bump. There ought to be an addition made to the lists of “summary punishments,” entitling outraged “Lieutenants-in-command” to seize all helm offenders and cast them instantly into chains.’
‘Blame the Kaiser, he’s the cause of the trouble,’ returned the Torpedo Boat captain sadly. ‘I’m well stocked with “hostility only” people, who never smelt salt water before they sold their farms and came to sea. You wouldn’t believe some of the weird stories I could tell you. Did you ever hear about my gray paint?’
‘I heard some of the most extraordinary rumours. What actually happened?’
‘Oh, it was chronic. Burton, my Number One, was nearly a raving lunatic over it, and hasn’t been the same man since. It quite broke the poor chap down. He’d been trying to mix the right shade for days, and thought he really had hit on it at last. It was all mixed in a whopping great tub ready for slapping on in the morning, and the whole bally lot disappeared during the night.’
‘Great Scott! What the devil happened to it?’
‘Prepare for a shock and I’ll break it to you gently. It had been dumped, jettisoned, thrown over the side, mark you, by an “’ostility only” bloke wot thort it was dirty water, sir, please!’
‘My poor old Jinks. No wonder he wears a careworn look.’
‘All very well for you to laugh, Austin, but it’s these little things that are the bane of one’s existence in the destroyer trade. Upsets of this sort and submarines are about on a par with one another.’
‘We ought to be ready by now,’ said Raymond, rising and going over to the scuttle. ‘Seagrave has been up since dewy dawn getting ready. Yes,’ he continued, looking over his shoulder, ‘he seems to be having a high old time of it by himself, and by the looks of things we’re all ready when you are.’
‘Right-oh. I shove off at eight-thirty, don’t I?’
‘I haven’t had a “dummy run” for ages,’ grumbled Austin. ‘The owner thinks I’m so proficient I don’t need any more, I expect.’
‘Oh, no, my friend,’ laughed Raymond. ‘You’re not his blue-eyed boy by a long chalk. It’s common knowledge that you made such a fiasco of your last one that he doesn’t like to trust you again.’
‘Maybe, maybe,’ replied Austin amiably. (He was one of the best submarine officers in the depot.) ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings.... What’s the stunt to-day, anyway?’
‘Just the usual. Jinks goes out at eight-thirty and buzzes about in a ten mile area. I follow when I’ve digested my food, dive when he least expects it, and attack him in his little sardine tin by short sharp rushes. I shall then be crowned with laurel leaves, which, with my accustomed modesty, I shall refuse to wear.’
‘That’s open to question. Last time Jinks gave me a run I couldn’t get anywhere near him. How many “fish” are you going to fire?’
‘Probably four, I think. It depends whether it’s worth while. You see, I’ve got that patent bow-cap, and as I have to flood all four tubes together, I might as well get rid of the “fish.”’
‘That always seems to me to be a rummy arrangement. Personally I can’t see much advantage in it. Do you find it any good?’
‘It’s handy in one way. If you miss with your first shot, your other tubes are ready for another go.’
‘My dear good chap, you must not be such a Hun. You’ll have to curb these desires for hate. Why should you want to rain “fish” on unfortunate beggars in that way?’
‘Time’s up,’ said the Torpedo Boat captain, pushing his chair back. ‘I’ll get off now. What’s the betting I spot you?’
‘Cocktails when we get back,’ Raymond called after him.
‘I’ll take you,’ said Jenkins, putting his head in through the ward room door. ‘I’ve got a wonderful eye for spotting periscopes.’
‘Mine is the “perisher” you will not spot,’ replied Raymond with dignity. ‘Not if you try ever so. Not if you try with both hands, you won’t.’
‘The youth bores me,’ sighed Jenkins, and fled as the Naval Annual banged up against the bulkhead.
He made his way down the flat, where the Marine sentry stood at stolid attention, and glimpses could be had, through open doors, of those who wrestled manfully with collars, and the air was rent with shrill cries and splashings from the bathroom. Messengers and officers’ servants were bustling about, and there was a general air of early morning energy. At the end of the flat, he stepped up the companion and emerged on the quarter-deck, where he gravely raised his hand to the salute.
‘Hallo, Jinks!’ cried a being, whose sword-belt and telescope proclaimed him the Officer of the Watch; ‘I was surprised to find your packet alongside when I took over at eight o’clock. What’s the game?’
‘I’m giving Raymond a run, and as I’m short of torpedo-lifting gear, I got permission to come alongside and take some in before shoving out of the harbour.’
‘I see. What time are you shoving off though, because “147” will be back in half an hour’s time and she’ll want your berth alongside the trot[9]?’
‘Don’t you worry. I’m off now. If you’d taken careful stock of me you’d have seen the business-like look in my eye.’
‘That’ll be all right then. Good luck. When are you coming aboard to dine with us, by the way?’
‘Any old time when I’m free will suit me.’
‘Well, come to-night, then. Dinner’s at seven-thirty. Cheer-oh.’
H.M. Torpedo Boat Zero lay alongside the outer submarine, and Jenkins had to clamber over the boats to reach his command. Four boats there were, with just a thin plank thrown from one to the other as a means of passage, and it required a little skilful manœuvring to get across in safety. As he made his way over he caught glimpses of their internals down the open hatches, heads bobbed round the conning-towers, and snatches of song rose from the depths. Some of the crew of the outer boat were exchanging insults with the Zero’s men alongside, but at sight of Jenkins they resumed their work with unaccustomed zeal.
The Zero was old, very old, and quite unlovely, but according to her captain, ‘she had her points.’ What these points were no one had ever discovered, for all inquiries were met with the reply that ‘if they couldn’t see them for themselves, he (the captain) was certainly not going to the trouble of pointing them out for their (the inquirer’s) instruction.’ She was small and uncomfortable and resembled an overgrown motor-launch with a whale-back fo’c’sle. Also she was wet in a sea way, and her internal arrangements were not of the most convenient. Nevertheless she was a command, and in her captain’s eye she had no blemish. Later, when he had four stripes on his sleeve, and commanded a battleship, he would look back on her and study her photographs with amusement and a little sorrow, but now, he was very serious about her and very touchy about criticisms. No man dared speak lightly of her since the awful day when ‘Snatcher’ Shelldon had referred to her as ‘a lady of doubtful age.’ The result had been terrific, and from that day nobody had openly questioned the Zero or her capabilities.
As he stepped aboard, Burton, the R.N.R. First Lieutenant, met him and saluted.
‘All ready, sir,’ he reported.
‘Very good, we’ll shove off at once,’ said Jenkins. ‘“123” will follow us in half an hour, so we haven’t got too much time. Stand by to let the lines go.’
He picked his way along the deck, past the two torpedo tubes, and the twelve-pounder guns, and up the ladder to the bridge. Here was no ‘big ship’ routine, for the Zero only carried two officers and just sufficient hands for the efficiency of the ship, and the helmsman and a signal boy were in sole charge of the bridge. It was not an extensive structure, and consisted of a wheelhouse and chart-room amidships, fronted with glass and affording some protection against wind and rain, and two wings thrown out to the vessel’s sides.
Just below the fore-part amidship was a twelve-pounder gun, and beyond the whole back stretched to the razor bow. She was not much to look at, but she could still do her twenty-two knots and a bit over if called upon, without unduly straining herself or her twin engines.
Jenkins gave an order and the lines were thrown off fore and aft. Then the engines began to move and the Zero slid quietly astern. Aboard the submarine alongside heads appeared from the hatches, and a parting insult was cast in an undertone at an able seaman who was coiling down a line.
Slowly she cleared the sterns of the Parentis and her satellites, swung round, came ahead, and steadied on her course out of the harbour.
The fine weather still held and it was a lovely morning. The Fleet looked majestic and awe-inspiring, and as the Torpedo Boat slipped past a mammoth Dreadnought, an outsider comparing the two might have been struck with the versatility of the Navy’s work. Big ships or little, all were marined by the same class of seamen, who never knew from one day to another in what class or size of ship they might be required to carry out their duties.
The Zero picked her way between the vessels, Jenkins training his glass on each as she went by. Here the ship’s company were running round the decks to the strains of a lively tune played by the Marine Band, there detachments were parading and squads under gunnery instruction. The Church pendant flown by a third ship indicated that the crew were at prayers, and divisions were mustering to the strains of a bugle call on a fourth. Signals were being hoisted, semaphores were busily waving their arms, and picket boats and trawlers dotted the open spaces between the vessels. It was ‘The Fleet,’ and accustomed to it as he was, the sight sent a thrill through him as he took in the scene.
As they cleared the gate and headed for the open sea Burton came up to the bridge.
‘Fine weather for us, sir,’ he remarked, picking up a pair of binoculars. ‘Light breeze and very nearly a flat calm.’
‘It is. Raymond will have to be pretty cunning if he’s going to get his attacks in unseen to-day. The best weather for him is when there is just a slight lop on the water. In a calm like this we ought to see the “feather” of his old “look-stick”[10] without much difficulty.’
‘Personally, I haven’t had much practice at picking up periscopes, and it never seems to me to be as easy as it sounds.’
‘Does take a bit of practice certainly, but with a little—— Hallo, what’s that over there?’
‘“147” returning,’ he continued, lowering his glasses. ‘Not more than six or seven miles off either. That shows you how hard it is to see ’em even when they’re on the surface. What’s the time?’
‘Ten to nine, sir,’ said Burton, glancing at his watch.
‘We’d better whack her up to twenty knots then, and we’ll start a zig-zag at once to exercise the helmsman. Raymond will be out any minute now. We’re going to manœuvre anywhere in this area,’ he added, with his finger on the chart, ‘so we ought to be able to see him dive.’
The Torpedo Boat slid through the water with an easy motion. The weather was clear, and here outside the harbour the sea was nearly smooth, and the razor fore-foot cut a great sheaf of water away on either bow as her engines worked up to top speed. Her gun-screws were closed up and her look-outs posted. A large red flag was hoisted at the yard-arm and every eye was kept glued on the harbour mouth, watching for the first sight of ‘123’ on her way out.
Every five minutes Jenkins altered the course, edging her gradually out to sea until the harbour was left about ten miles astern. Arrived there, the Zero ran up and down parallel to the land, waiting for her foe to appear.
Presently the signal boy lowered his glass sharply and reported, ‘“123” coming out, sir.’
Away over the entrance a small smudge showed up, which the glasses revealed as Raymond’s submarine doing her best on her gas engines. Her bridge-screen was down and all appeared to be ready for diving.
‘All right,’ said Jenkins, after carefully inspecting her. ‘Keep an eye on her and let me know when she dives.’
Up went the telescope again, while the Zero continued her hurried beat. Then down came the glass, and ‘Diving, sir,’ the boy announced.
Away over on the starboard hand ‘147,’ who had seen the red flag and knew its meaning, hauled up to the Northward to approach the harbour by a roundabout route and leave the Channel clear for her submerged sister. Not a sign of Raymond’s boat could now be seen, and the game of ‘touch’ began in earnest.
The Zero had to get back into harbour, while ‘123’ would exert every effort to torpedo her. It was like looking for a poisoned needle in a bundle of hay, and one realised what it is like when hostile submarines with real live torpedoes are in one’s vicinity. Then, it occurred to Jenkins, there was always the chance of something going seriously wrong with Raymond’s boat, and he might run her down unknowingly. Well, that was up to her captain, and he must look out for himself. Although he had given practice-attacks to many submarines, the Torpedo Boat captain could never overcome an uneasy feeling when his ‘enemy’ had dived. He couldn’t see them, they were away under water, and if the attack were not made as soon as he expected it, doubts would come over him as to whether all were well below. Was anything the matter, and ought he to stop, buoy the spot, and return to harbour and report it? Then when he was getting really anxious the submarine would rise or fire at him, and he would have to call himself a fool for his doubts and fears. He was getting over it now, but he still felt the anxiety if, for any reason, an attack were unusually prolonged. Standing now in a wing of the bridge with his binoculars glued to his eyes, he scanned every inch of the water within a two miles’ radius. On the other side Burton was similarly employed, and look-outs in all parts of the ship were doing their best with their naked eyes.
The helm was put over, and, always edging towards the distant harbour, the Zero dodged and turned and retraced her tracks to the skipper’s orders. She pirouetted like a debutante, and it seemed as if she fully appreciated the fact that, all the while, somewhere beneath her, ‘123’ an enemy for the moment, was watching and waiting the opportunity to fire her torpedoes at her. The sun shone brightly and danced on the wavelets as they advanced to meet her. Occasionally a light spray kissed her in passing, and the harbour and ‘home’ drew nearer and more acceptable. Away ahead a gull circled and flew down to the wave tops, hovered an instant, wheeled up, and finally fluttered slowly down as if seeking something.
Jenkins brought his glass down with a bang.
‘Hard-a-port!’ he cried. ‘There she is! Quarter of a mile off, four points on the port bow.’
The Zero swung round in her own length, but even as she turned two glittering objects showed up in the water, leaving white streaks behind them and approaching her at a prodigious speed.
‘Steady!’ shouted Jenkins. ‘Watch the torpedoes! Stop her!’
One ‘fish’ passed well astern while the other barely grazed under her counter. Five hundred yards farther on they broke surface, and the red-painted collision heads bobbed up and down in silent mockery.
‘Away gig!’ piped the quartermaster, as Burton came tumbling down the ladder. Two seamen jumped into the boat while the others lowered her to the water, where on the tables being unhooked she towed alongside by her painter, which was made fast from the Zero’s fo’c’sle. The man in the stern-sheets grasped the tiller and sheered her out, for the Torpedo Boat had not lost way yet and was still going through the water at a good five knots. Then quietly he eased in again, and the remainder of the crew dropped into the boat followed by the T.I. and Burton.
‘Ready!’ cried the latter, as he took his seat. ‘Let go, for’ard. Way together!’
As she sheered out, the Torpedo Boat slid swiftly past her. When all was clear, her engines churned astern and she gradually lost her weigh and came to a standstill.
All this time Jenkins could see no sign of the submarine, which had evidently retired to a discreet depth after firing the ‘mouldies.’ Nothing was to be seen of her as he looked all round in the proximity of his vessel. Then suddenly he realised with a shock that she was there, had risen just behind him within a biscuit’s throw, bobbed up like a Jack-in-the-Box, in fact. True, she was deep in the water but her whole superstructure was above surface, and as she lay there apparently deserted she put him in mind of some monster of the deep thrown up by an underwater explosion. Presently the conning-tower hatch opened and Raymond and the helmsman appeared. A moment or two passed, an order was given, and she slid quietly alongside, within hailing distance.
‘Saw you!’ shouted Jenkins triumphantly. ‘I spotted the periscope on my port bow and put the helm hard-a-port just in time!’
‘Saw me, eh!’ Raymond bellowed back. ‘For how long?’
‘Only about a half a minute. Just when you had the “look-stick” up the last time. When you fired, it must have been. You bore about sou’-west as near as I could get it. I was afraid it was too late and you were going to get your shot in.’
‘I rather thought I should get you that time. How did the “fish” run?’
‘Very well. A good straight run, but they seemed to me to be a bit deep. What depth did you have them set at?’
‘Sixteen feet. Best to be on the safe side. That makes sure of them going well underneath you if I get a good shot in, and leaves a margin in case they rise a bit. I don’t want to damage ’em if I can help it.’
‘No, of course not. Do you want another run?’
‘Yes, please. I’d like to get rid of the other two fish now we’re on the job. Same speed zig-zag will do me nicely.’
‘Right-oh. I’m picking up your torpedoes now. If you sheer off at once, by the time I get ’em aboard you’ll be far enough away to dive. I’ll get out to sea again to the limit of the area.’
‘All right. Thanks very much. But I shall be some time, so don’t shake things too much. I’m pumping out the tubes so as to go through the whole show again for the benefit of the crew. I haven’t had any attacks for some time and there are some new hands in the boat.’
‘Never mind!’ bawled Jenkins, waving the megaphone in adieux. ‘I’ll steam out slowly and give you plenty of time. Cheer-oh.’
Meanwhile the gig had pulled quickly to the nearer of the two torpedoes. The war-heads, with their great charges of T.N.T., had been removed the night before and the harmless collision or peace-heads substituted. Other slight adjustments had also been made in order to make them sufficiently buoyant, to control their speed and the depth and distance they should run, and now they bobbed on the surface in a perpendicular position, spouting water and pointing their noses to the skies.
As they drew alongside the first of them the T.I. grabbed at the wire grummet fixed to the head, and passed the end of a line through it. The torpedo was then pulled gently forward by the boat’s crew until the expert could reach and force back the starting lever, rendering harmless her knife-edge propellers. Then off they pulled for the other, the ‘mouldy’ touring astern and bobbing after them.
Presently they had them both fast, and rowed gently back to the Zero, Burton and the T.I. holding the towing lines well apart to prevent them banging against one another and injuring themselves.
Arrived alongside under the out-swung torpedo davit, the boat was made fast and a line passed over the propellers of the inboard ‘fish.’ Its other end was thrown aboard, and the Zero’s men clapped on to the nose and tail ropes and lifted her bodily out of the water. Then the T.I. passed a thin steel band round the body of the torpedo at its point of balance, screwed in a shackle, hooked on the davit runner, and all was ready.
‘Hoist away!’ cried Burton from the stern sheets.
The torpedo crept quietly up the Zero’s side, the men guiding her as she rose. When she cleared the deck level, the davit was swung round and she was gently lowered on to the wooden chocks prepared to receive her. The second torpedo followed, and all but two of the boat’s crew came aboard, the coxswain and the bow oar remaining to get her inboard. She was pulled under the davits, hooked on, and as her dripping keel rose out of the water, Jenkins put the telegraphs ahead and the Zero was under weigh again.
Before the gig was up the T.I. was fussing round the recovered torpedo like a hen round a long-lost chicken, putting on tail clamps, draining the engines, and generally seeing to their needs.
As Burton went up to the bridge, after seeing the boat in, ‘123,’ who was now about a mile away, slowly disappeared from sight.
First of all she settled down bodily in the water until her superstructure was awash. Slowly her decks submerged, leaving only her gun and conning-tower visible. Then as she sank deeper, her periscope’s standard sticking out of the water was the only evidence of her existence. The standard vanished, and through binoculars the periscope alone could be seen, leaving a thin wake behind it. Then that, too, disappeared, and there was no longer anything to tell the watchers that ‘123’ had ever existed.
Down in her internals the crew was at diving-stations ready for the next attack. In the fore-end, where Seagrave was in charge of the torpedo tubes, the electric light winked and shimmered on the round copper doors. The T.I. and two seamen were busy with valves and levers, and the sound of a pump rose above the hissing of escaping air. Raymond was in the control room, by the periscope, and Boyd stood by, ready to record every course and bearing on the chart and carry out any special orders the captain might give.
She had dived to thirty feet as a preliminary canter in order to get well clear of the Torpedo Boat, before showing her periscope, and now, at an order from Raymond, the two coxswains slowly brought her up. Very gingerly the captain raised the instrument, took a quick glance round, and lowered it again.
‘Thirty feet,’ he ordered. ‘Course 20 deg., Boyd. Zero bearing 120 deg. We’ll let her get well out to sea again and have another smack at her on her way back.’
‘All ready for’ard, sir,’ said Seagrave, coming aft. ‘We haven’t had a great deal of practice in the fore-end lately, but that new man seems to understand his job. I’ve drained the tubes, so that we can go through the whole routine again.’
‘Very good. I’ll let you know in plenty of time. We’ve got to get old Jinks this journey, remember. He mustn’t be allowed to crow twice. Up periscope,’ he added to the able seaman who was controlling the movements of the ‘look-stick’ so that the captain might be free to make his observations.
‘All right,’ he continued, finishing his brief survey. ‘Carry on for’ard. Jinks has turned back now. Keep her at eighteen feet, coxswain.’
Another rapid glance a few minutes later showed him what he was waiting for, and as the periscope came down he prepared for the attack.
‘Alter course to 175 deg., bearing 160 deg.,’ he called out. ‘Speed up 500. Flood the tubes.’
‘Flood the tubes,’ repeated Boyd along the tunnel of the boat, and ‘flood the tubes’ came back from Seagrave in the fore-end.
Round the tube doors a buzz of preparation took place. Before opening the bow-cap and exposing the outboard doors at the farther end, through which the torpedoes would presently be launched by compressed air, the tubes had to be filled with water. It was necessary to flood them from the water already in the fore-trimming tank, because if outside water were allowed to enter the boat the extra weight would put her down by the head and seriously upset her trim, probably even rendering an attack impossible. Then, when the tubes were flooded, the bow-cap could be swung, and on the order to fire compressed air would hurl the torpedoes from their cages, the trippers would engage and force back the starting levers as they slid out, and they would be away from the mark at forty knots.
‘Open the drains and vents!’ cried Seagrave. ‘Air on the fore trim line!’
Away aft in the control room Hoskins worked at a spindle on the air manifold, and a rumbling and gurgling indicated that water was being blown from the tank up into the tubes.
Seagrave and the T.I. were watching the gauges as the level slowly rose. Up, up it came, and as the thin bubble line reached the top, a spurt of water shot out from the vents.
‘Shut off drains and blows,’ cried the ‘Sub.’ ‘Close the vents!’
The tubes were now full, and with a few turns of a wheel he forced the great bow-cap for’ard off its seating. Then with his foot on a shining brass pedal, with a single heave of a lever, he swung the whole mass round till the indicator showed that the open doors were in line with the tubes. Something fell into place with a click, the cap was worked back on to its seating, and the torpedoes were free for their mission.
‘Charge firing tanks’ was the next order, and as the air sighed and soughed through the pipes, ‘All ready for’ard, sir!’ he shouted.
‘Ay, ay,’ answered Raymond, with his eye at the periscope. ‘Bearing of Zero 165 deg. What’s her depth?’
‘Eighteen feet, sir.’
‘Right. Down periscope.’
Boyd was working furiously at his chart, laying off the bearings and courses and making notes of the orders given for future reference. All this would be gone through afterwards in ward room and cabin, and it was best to be well prepared.
Up went the periscope again. The men in the control room guessed they were nearing the moment of attack and steadied themselves in readiness.
‘Bearing 170 deg. What’s her depth?’
‘Sixteen feet, sir.’
‘Keep her down, man. Don’t let her break surface. Down with her,’ said Raymond sharply.
The coxswains worked frantically and took her down to twenty feet. Then up once more and the periscope raised a mere few inches.
‘Bearing 175 deg. Full fields. Stand by!’ shouted Raymond, and down came the periscope again.
The motors eased down as the fields were increased by the torpedo ratings working at the motor-boards in the after compartment. Boyd dropped his notebook and stood by the firing gear.
‘Deflection’s twenty, sir,’ he said.
‘Open “stand by” valves,’ cried Seagrave. ‘Open the cocks on the firing line.’ A minute’s quick glance round, then ‘ready, sir.’
The periscope went up a few inches. Raymond was bending down almost on his back now in his efforts to show above water as little of his ‘look-stick’ as possible.
‘Port ten,’ he ordered. ‘Keep her at her depth. Steady the helm. Starboard five. Steady again.... Fire!’
Boyd wrenched down the firing levers, and the boat shuddered through all her frames as the torpedoes were hauled forward. There was a great soughing of air as the firing tanks recharged, the coxswains spun their wheels to counteract the loss of weight, and down came the periscope.
‘Eighty feet,’ said Raymond, rubbing his eyes.
* * * * *
The Zero had turned her head out to sea for the second attack. Jenkins had carefully marked the spot where the submarine had dived and felt fairly confident of picking up the periscope a second time. Burton also was beginning to alter his opinion about the difficulty of spotting a periscope. Perhaps it was easier than he had thought it. True, he hadn’t seen it last time, but then he was looking out on the other side of the ship and couldn’t be expected to have picked it up.
He crossed over to where the captain was standing.
‘How far are we going out, sir?’ he asked.
‘About the same distance, but we’ll keep her at this speed till we turn round for the run. Raymond wants to do some fancy work or other to train his crew.’
‘Very good, sir. I expect he was pretty sick at missing us last time. He thinks he’s rather a knut at attacks, doesn’t he?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t mind,’ laughed the other. ‘It won’t worry him, he’s one of the best. And don’t run away with the idea that he won’t get us, because his blood’s up now, and it would be hard to find a better submarine officer when he really means business. How does the lighthouse bear?’
‘About another three miles to go,’ replied Burton, peering along the azimuth ring.
‘We’ll carry on like this for another quarter of an hour then before we turn round. Warn the look-outs when we start the run.’
The Torpedo Boat steamed on at about twelve knots to the limit of the area. Her red flag warned all intruders of the nature of her errand, and any passing craft gave a wide berth to the region in which she was working.
Presently Burton looked into the compass again and announced that she had reached the turning-point. The Zero swung round on the course for home, and Jenkins bent over the chart.
‘Here we are,’ he said, marking the spot with a pencil, ‘and Raymond dived there. I expect he’ll attack us about four miles this side of the harbour. Our course is 270 deg. Whack her up to full speed and start a zig-zag.’
The telegraph clanged, and the helmsman put his wheel over at an order from Burton. The Zero jumped ahead and began on her erratic run for home. Scarcely a ripple moved the surface of the water now that the light wind had dropped, and the odds were strongly in favour of their spotting the periscope long before Raymond could get into a position favourable enough to fire his torpedoes.
With her slender bow slicing up a narrow trench of water the Torpedo Boat raced on, turning and zig-zagging to the slightest touch of the helm. Once Jenkins thought he saw the submarine and gave a sharp order, but it proved to be nothing, and he countermanded it immediately. Then Burton thought he saw her, and after that he saw periscopes everywhere where there were none to be seen. A haunted feeling came over him, and he thanked his stars it was not an enemy boat that was after them. It seemed rather hopeless trying to find her after all.
But Jenkins, the veteran, thought otherwise. He had done this job on many occasions, and rather fancied himself at bowling out his submarine friends, and as they approached the suspected area he lowered his glasses and took a final glance at the chart.
‘Keep a good look-out now,’ he shouted to the watching men. ‘Starboard bow probably.’
It seemed impossible that a submarine could approach the little craft and remain undetected. A dozen men were on the alert scanning every inch of the surface in the vicinity of the vessel, and those on the bridge kept their glasses sweeping in all directions. Now that the moment had arrived, an expectant hush fell on the watchers, and each strained his eyes for the first sight of the slightest ‘feather’ or other indication of the enemy’s presence. Even the unnatural behaviour of a gull called for attention, for the wily birds can see and give warning of a periscope long before the human eye can detect it. It was like a game of hide-and-seek, and the look-outs experienced the feelings of a stranger stumbling along in the dark, knowing that somewhere round the corner his enemy is waiting to stick a knife in his back.
The expected danger-spot was reached, every eye on the alert. Over went the helm, they were through it; it was passed and the tension relaxed.
Still there was no sign from the depths, and Jenkins slowly lowered his glass again.
‘He’s missed us, I think,’ he said. ‘We must have given him the slip.’
‘A bit too quick for him,’ remarked Burton complacently.
Save for themselves the ocean seemed untenanted, and there lay the harbour a bare two miles ahead.
‘Don’t crow till you’re out of the wood, though,’ went on the skipper. ‘He may have us yet.’
Then suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, his eye caught a glint in the water.
‘Hard-a-starboard!’ he snapped. ‘Over with it!’
Too late! A flash of white and creamy bubbles told where one torpedo had rushed across the bow. The other shot clean under the Torpedo Boat, was lost for an instant, and reappeared on the other side like an arrow from a bow. Two cables away they broke surface, and the red peace-heads bobbed up and down as witnesses of the attack.
‘Got us, by Jove!’ roared Jenkins. ‘A beautiful shot! Steady the helm! Stop her!’
Still there was no sign of ‘123,’ and with her engines going astern the Zero gradually lost her weigh and came to a standstill.
The boat was called away and Burton despatched to retrieve the spent torpedoes, and presently a dark wedge-shaped object pushed up above the surface and revealed itself as the submarine’s periscope standard. The bridge, the gun, and finally the superstructure appeared, and she was up from the eighty foot dive which she had undertaken to increase the realism of the attack. An enemy who had seen the torpedoes on their mission would have taken the warning and cast about for his assailant, if he had not been blown to a better world.
She lay on the surface about half a mile off, menacing and silent. The figures were seen moving on her bridge, and she slowly dropped alongside, while her telescopic mast went up in sections and the White Ensign was hoisted to the peak.
‘Beautiful shot!’ shouted Jenkins, as she came within hailing distance. ‘A real ripper! One went just ahead and the other right underneath me. That depth you set them at was about right and they ran straight. If I’d been a Hun you’d have blown me to smithereens.’
‘Did you see me?’ howled Raymond.
‘No fear. Never saw a vestige of periscope. In fact, I thought you’d missed me.’
‘That’s good. I nearly broke surface once, and I was afraid it would be no use carrying on. Will you bring the “fish” in and I’ll take ’em from you when we get alongside the Parentis?’
‘Yes, all right. I’m picking them up now. See you later.’
Raymond started the motors and ‘123’ drew ahead. Presently Burton returned with the torpedoes, which were carefully hoisted, and as the boat was swung to the davit-heads the Zero got under weigh. Ahead in a cloud from her exhaust was the submarine, on her gas engines now, and putting her best screw forward for the harbour. Permission to enter was sought and granted from the Flagship in hoists of coloured bunting and the exercise was over.
As the Zero gathered speed the captain looked up from the chart table.
‘This is where we come in, I think,’ he said with a grin; ‘shove her on to full.’
Down below the telegraph clanged and the small craft shook herself like an expectant terrier. Then she began to feel the added impetus and rapidly overhauled her slower rival. The Heads of the harbour entrance opened out as they approached, and the trawler at the gate hoisted the clearance signal. Beyond, the masts and funnels of the Fleet could be seen, and away to the southward an Admiralty collier was punching along with her cargo of diamonds for the ever hungry bunkers.
As they buzzed past their recent enemy, Jenkins gave an order to the signal boy, and that ingenuous youth began waving the semaphore arms with evident enjoyment.
‘Will report your return,’ he spelt out.
A pause followed. Then a figure was seen to clamber to a position of vantage on the submarine’s standard and there was a flash of red and yellow bunting.
‘What does he say?’ asked Raymond, when the message came to an end.
The boy saluted. ‘“123” to Zero, sir, “Your signal not understood. Will report sinking of Zero by torpedo on my arrival at base.” Eleven twenty-five, code time, sir.’
‘What did I tell you, Burton?’ laughed the captain. ‘It’s no good trying to get to windward of Raymond. He’s always undefeated to the end.’
‘Precocity, I call it,’ said the other, who was bitterly grieved at the downfall of Jenkins’s attempt to score off the wily ‘hate-boat.’
The signal boy turned his back sharply and busied himself with his flags, while he hid a smile behind a grimy hand. He was used to this sort of chaff among the gods, but experience had taught him that it was not well to display too keen a sense of humour on these occasions.
Three minutes later, with her engines at a reduced speed, the Zero took the gate and sped on up the harbour. As she passed the big ships the boy pounced on an answering pendant, ran it up to the yard-arm, and glued his eye to the telescope.
‘Parentis to Zero,’ he spelt out. ‘Moorings alongside Parentis occupied. Anchor in No. 4 berth.’
‘Down answer,’ he added, and the pendant fluttered to the deck.
‘All right, carry on for’ard, Burton,’ said the captain. ‘She’ll have to come alongside us in the afternoon and take the torpedoes in. Starboard anchor. Forty-five on the windlass.’
Burton departed to superintend the mooring operations, and the Torpedo Boat picked up her berth and let go her anchor without unnecessary fuss.
Meanwhile ‘123’ had followed her into the harbour at a more leisurely gait, observing a discreet decorum now that she was under the paternal eye of the big ships. As she approached the Parentis her gas engines were shut down, and she dropped alongside on her motors and made fast to the trot. Raymond sent for the T.I., and arrangements were made for the parting and overhauling of the torpedoes that had been fired, and also held communion with the coxswain with regard to shifting alongside the Zero for them, after lunch. Boyd shut down the Sperry compass, and by the time Seagrave had seen everything in order the three officers decamped to clean themselves for the meal.
‘A most profitable morning’s work,’ announced Raymond, as they entered the crowded ward room. ‘My congratulations to you, Seagrave, on the way the “fish” ran, and to you, Boyd, for the masterly manner in which you recorded our doings. Who’s having a gin?’
* * * * *
After dinner that evening the captain of the depot came down to the ward room and was hailed with the respectful welcome of a great man and a comrade. Drinks were passed on him, and he was led to an arm-chair near the fire where the boat-captains were discussing their usual topics, ‘shop’ and motor-bicycles. The Torpedo Lieutenant was in good form and regaled his superiors with a lengthy account of his unrewarded struggles to benefit a misguided humanity, and of his abject failure. Austin and Blake brought a discussion on the merits of American Diesel engines to him for a casting decision, and the Staff Paymaster bemoaned the removal of a certain cherished underling to another sphere of utility.
By-and-by, in a lull in the general conversation, the Captain spoke of what was in his mind.
‘How did the attacks go to-day, Raymond?’ he asked. ‘You haven’t told me anything beyond the bare report.’
‘Nothing to tell you, sir. They went pretty well. One came off and the other didn’t.’
‘That’s all rubbish, sir,’ put in Jenkins, who was one of the guests of the evening. ‘I only just saw him the first time, and the second attack defeated me completely. I was absolutely Hunned and never saw a thing.’
The Captain’s eyes twinkled.
‘Not so bad, Raymond,’ he said. ‘Not so bad. A little more practice and you’ll become one of the wonders of the deep.’
‘I don’t know about that, sir,’ laughed Raymond. ‘I ought to have got both attacks in, really, and I only just got him the last time by a fluke.’
The Captain smiled and changed the subject. At the other end of the ward room somebody was playing the piano and the strains of ‘The Admiral’s Broom’ rose in a deep baritone. When the chorus was reached the party round the fire joined in:—
‘I’ve a whip at the mast said he,
For a whip is the sign for me,
That the World may know, where ever I go,
I ride and rule the Sea....’
The good old words filled the room and floated up through the skylight to the silent quarter-deck, where the officer of the watch paced up and down, and the anchored ships showed up as deeper blotches in the darkness. Overhead the wireless buzzed and crackled, and the lapping of the water between the boats alongside sounded like mermaids’ kisses.
A quartermaster on his way forward paused by the open skylight listening to the tinkle of the piano.
‘Strewth,’ he muttered. ‘Orficers ’avin’ a good time,’ and relapsed into silence as a signalman pattered by to relieve his mate on the bridge.
As the song came to an end a boy operator knocked at the ward-room door and handed a message to the Captain, who read it and put it in his pocket. Another song was beginning, and the singers were clustering round the piano. Duty called him, and as the song reached the noisy stage, he left with a quiet ‘good-night,’ and returned to his lonely quarters.
He was no mean judge of character.