CHAPTER VI
The Zeppelin Hunt
Before long the wind rose, blowing strongly from the nor'west. In less than an hour it had increased to half a gale and had veered due east. Vicious white-crested waves were slapping against R19's snub bows and surging in green cascades as far as the base of the conning-tower.
With the exception of the quick-firers everything on deck was battened down. The for'ard gun's crew was ordered aft until their services would be required; even then, duffel suits and oilskins notwithstanding, they stood, hanging on to the stanchion rails, shivering in the icy, salt-laden blast.
The sky, too, was now overcast, while the horizon was frequently obscured by patches of mirk as the rain-clouds scudded rapidly with the wind.
"There she is, sir," shouted one of the seamen.
Although his words were unintelligible in the roar of the elements, his outstretched hand gave an indication that the quarry was in sight. At an altitude of 3000 feet, and battling ineffectually with the gale, was a large Zeppelin—one of the "L" type. She was considerably down by the stern and manoeuvring badly. Two of her five propellers were motionless, while the action of her twin vertical rudders failed to keep her steady against the side-thrust of the remaining propellers. Steadily and surely she was being blown farther and farther away from her base.
Lieutenant-Commander Stockdale had already laid his plans. In calm weather diving would be almost useless as a means of concealment; but in the choppy seas now running the submarine could with advantage submerge until the crucial moment.
No alteration of the vessel's course was necessary. The Zeppelin was drifting almost straight towards her. Any slight deviation could be easily corrected by means of observation through the periscopes, for unless the air-ship turned and fled "down-wind"—an unlikely contingency—she could not help passing within effective range of the submarine's guns.
"Trim for diving."
The order was carried out with the utmost dispatch. With hardly a tremor the four guns, with their bulky mountings, sank into their "houses", the water-tight lids sliding automatically over the lowered weapons. The stanchions and rails fell as flat as did the walls of Jericho, but with far less noise and certainly no dust, although there was plenty of spray to atone for the deficiency. Ankle-deep in water, the men on deck waited until the submarine's platform was clear of the swirling foam, then they too bolted below. Clang went the water-tight hatches and R19 was little more than a hermetically-sealed cylinder packed with machinery, eighty odd human beings, and Flirt.
Alone in the conning-tower, the manhole of which, communicating with the interior of the hull, was left open, the Hon. Derek stood, his eyes fixed to the object-bowl of the periscope, on which the surrounding surface of the water was reproduced with absolute fidelity, marred only by a vertical and a horizontal line marked in degrees. In the middle part of the image, corresponding with the centre of the field of vision, a specially-constructed lens enlarged the view, enabling the observer to gauge the distance and the direction of the target with the greatest exactitude. Although there were voice-tubes and indicators at hand, the Lieutenant-Commander's attention was directed mainly upon the object-bowl. Consequently he shouted his orders to a petty officer, whose head, as he stood on the short steel ladder, was level with the floor of the conning-tower.
"Down to eighteen feet."
With an almost imperceptible movement, as the horizontal diving-planes were actuated, R19 slid beneath the waves, the while "pumping" or rising and falling vertically under the constant alteration of the pressure of the water above her. Momentarily the vision in the object-bowl dimmed and again recovered its normal clearness, as clouds of spray enveloped the tips of the exposed periscopes, almost immediately to vanish from the surface of the anti-moisture-treated glass.
In the confined space the noise of the well-running electric motors was deafening. The torpedo-men were in the present instance able to "stand easy", but the engine-room artificers and stokers, their moist faces glistening in the glare of the electric lights, were far from idle. The gun-crews, clustered round the hatchway ladders, ready to rush to their posts, were grimly silent, awaiting the order that would give them the chance to "strafe" a Hun gas-bag. Opportunities for "strafing" were few and far between in the British submarine service, not from inclination but from the absence of a suitable target; when a chance did occur the eager men were "all over it".
Standing immediately behind the petty officer stationed at the sound-receiving apparatus in a glass-encased compartment Sub-Lieutenant Fordyce noticed the man was listening intently, first at the right-hand disk then at the left. Then, turning his head, he regarded his officer with a puzzled air.
Opening the door, Fordyce entered the sound-proof cabinet.
"What's wrong now, Chalmers?" he asked.
"Something fishy, sir," replied the man, stepping aside. "Will you stand here a minute, sir?"
The Sub took up a position between the two concave disks. He could distinctly hear the bass hum of the Zeppelin's aerial propellers, while faintly through the right-hand disk came the thud of a marine "screw".
That meant that on the starboard hand, abeam if anything, a vessel was under way.
"Very good; carry on, Chalmers," said the Sub as he relinquished the apparatus to the man's charge. "I'll report to the Captain."
"What's that?" enquired the Hon. Derek, without turning his face from the vision of his expected victim. "Vessel to starboard? Nothing in sight up-topsides, by Jove. All right, carry on. We'll tackle our Zeppelin friend first of all, and then see what it is that's worrying you."
Fordyce could not but admire his skipper's coolness. Somewhere within audible distance of R19 was another under-water craft, hostile, no doubt, and intent upon the British submarine's destruction, unless—jealous thought!—it were another of the E Class stalking the crippled airship. Whichever it might be, the Hon. Derek was resolved to leave her severely alone, risking a torpedo or being rammed until he had had a smack at the huge gas-bag.
"Up with her!" ordered the Lieutenant-Commander.
There was no necessity to blow the ballast-tanks. R19 had been kept to 19 feet solely by the action of the deflected horizontal diving rudders. Like an ungainly porpoise the submarine "broke surface", and the guns' crews raced up the ladders and through the now open hatchways.
At an angle of 30 degrees from the perpendicular, and at a bare 2000-feet altitude, was the Zeppelin, presenting a splendid target. Proceeding in the same direction as the submarine, she was evidently unaware of the latter's presence, for not a shot came from the quick-firers mounted in her nacelles, nor did an aerial torpedo hurtle downwards towards the British craft.
No. 3 quick-firer—the one immediately in the wake of the conning-tower—was the first to open fire. Ere the haze of the burning cordite had drifted aft, the smoke from the bursting shell mushroomed close to the huge envelope. It seemed impossible that the fragile fabric could hope to escape the terrific impact. Another and another shell sped from the submarine's guns. Still the Zeppelin held on.
Then a cloud of black smoke hid the target from the gun-layers' eyes. The men raised a rousing cheer.
"Got her, by the bosun's cat!" shouted a bluejacket, unmindful of everything in his excitement and delirious joy.
But the cat of the afore-mentioned warrant officer must have been a bad mouser, for when the smoke drifted away the Zeppelin was 12,000 or 14,000 feet in the air. Under cover of the camouflage—for it was smoke purposely emitted in order to screen her movements—the air-ship had thrown out a large quantity of ballast, and had shot vertically upwards out of effective range.
Even as they watched, the bluejackets were aware that R19 was porting helm. Circling eight points to starboard, she headed straight for a pole-like object forging ahead through the crested waves—the periscope of a U-boat that was either about to "break surface" or else to let fly a torpedo at the British submarine.