CHAPTER XXXI
MONITORS IN ACTION
Under a screen of smoke from a far-flung line of destroyers the "Anzac" picked up her steamboat's crew. Being under fire, she could not hoist in the picquet-boat. Wind and tide being favourable, the boat was cut adrift. Unless sunk by a chance shot, she could be recovered when the monitors withdrew at the conclusion of the bombardment.
"Fire-control platform, Mr. Tressidar," ordered the captain when the sub. reported himself in the conning-tower. "Mr. McTulloch has just been sent down—badly wounded. Look alive—we want the range of Battery 45 pretty quickly."
The monitor had ceased firing, owing to the smoke from the intervening destroyers. It also gave the guns a chance to cool, for they had been firing continuously for the last two hours.
Through the acrid-smelling smoke that wafted from below the sub. made his way to one of the oblique legs of the tripod mast. One glance showed that it was no longer possible to gain the lofty platform by that means, for the metal tube was torn half-way through by a shell, a dozen or more of the metal rungs of the ladder had been shorn away, and the steel was still unbearable to the hand owing to the heat generated by the terrible impact.
Fifteen feet above the sub.'s head dangled the frayed end of the rope by which the officer he was about to relieve was lowered from the fire-control platform. McTulloch, seriously wounded by a fragment of shell, had hardly gained the deck ere another sliver of steel had cut away his means of descent.
Crossing to the second inclined leg of the tripod mast, Tressidar found that the steel ladder was comparatively intact. The metal tubing of the mast had been dented in several places and perforated more than once. The metal, too, was hot, but not to the same extent as was the damaged leg.
Up through the drifting smoke the sub. made his way, the whole fabric of the mast trembling under the continuous discharge of the heavy ordnance.
When half-way up he felt a terrific jar, accompanied by a roar that outvoiced the noise of the guns. The smoke was torn by lurid flashes; fragments of metal hurtled past him or struck the mast with a sound like that of a heavy hammer clanging on an anvil.
Temporarily blinded by the glare and partly stunned by the concussion, Tressidar hung on like grim death. It was the triumph of muscles over mind, for the action was purely automatic. Out swung the tripod mast till the leg by which he was ascending was perpendicular, although normally inclined thirty degrees to the vertical line. From beneath him dense clouds of black and yellow smoke vomited from the superstructure, to the accompaniment of the crackling of flames and the groans of the wounded.
A hostile shell had scored a direct hit, partially wrecking the after-end of the superstructure, making a clean sweep of the gear, including the two anti-aircraft guns.
Tressidar was yet to know this. He was merely aware that the Huns had "got one home." He wondered whether he was still alive, until the mist cleared before his eyes and he found himself still clinging to the slippery rungs.
At last he reached the small platform at the head of the two sloping legs where they joined the higher and vertical "stick" of the tripod. Ten feet above him was the oval aperture leading to the fire-control platform. Hitherto the metal tube had formed a defence between him and the direct line of fire—a moral protection rather than a real one, since the metal was not proof against heavy shell-fire. But now, owing to the vertical rungs being on the fore-side of the mast, he was directly exposed to the fire of the shore batteries, and the Hun had a nasty habit of using shrapnel in conjunction with the high-explosive shells.
Another crash this time high above his head. For the moment he thought that the fire-control platform had been swept out of existence, for a raffle of spars, wire-rigging, and splinters of metal tumbled past him, some of the debris so close that he felt the "windage" on his cheeks.
Instinctively he ducked. When he raised his head again, he saw, to his relief, that his appointed post still remained—at least the "deck" of the fire-control platform was intact. The shell had struck the topmast, cutting it in twain and bringing the wireless aerials with the severed portions as it fell to augment the debris already lumbering the deck.
The destroyers had now forged ahead. Their smoke no longer screened the "Anzac" from the enemy. The monitor's guns, elevated to an angle of thirty degrees, were pointed shoreways, but neither sent forth its fifteen hundred pounds of death-dealing shell.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Tressidar. "They're waiting for someone to register."
Spurred by the thought, he redoubled his energies, swarmed up the remaining rungs of the ladder, and squeezed through the narrow aperture on the deck of the fire-control station.
The sight which met his gaze was a terrible one. The metal roof had been ripped through as easily as if it had been made of cardboard; a dozen jagged holes were visible in the sides. The delicate instruments were shattered almost out of recognition.
Huddled in one corner was the gunnery lieutenant. At his feet lay a seaman; another was lying inertly across the body of the first. Seated on the floor was Eric Greenwood with his head resting on his drawn-up knees. The A.P. had been struck by a fragment of shell that had inflicted a nasty scalp-wound. Partly stunned by the concussion and blinded by the blood that streamed from the wound, he was just able to recognise his chum.
"A clean wipe out," he muttered weakly. "Everything blown to blazes. No use hanging on here, old man."
It was not a time for Tressidar to attend to his chum. Seizing the voice-tube communicating with the conning-tower, he reported the destruction of the registering gear. There was no response. He was talking to empty air, for both voice-tubes and telephone-wires had been severed; and since the target was invisible, the "Anzac's" huge guns were practically useless without the directing force in the fire-control station.
Risking death, Tressidar looked out over the side of his precarious perch. The monitor was circling slowly to port. The fire that had broken out in the superstructure was practically under control, thanks to the copious stream of water played upon it by the "Downton" pumps; but the deck looked a veritable shambles. Owing to her low, armoured freeboard the "Anzac" had escaped injury 'twixt wind and water, but almost everything on deck that was not protected had disappeared in a veritable holocaust. The single funnel, partly shot through, had buckled about fifteen feet close to the deck, the bent portion resting against the after-leg of the tripod mast and swaying dangerously with each roll of the ship.
The turret, scarred by several glancing hits, was still intact, although hardly a vestige of grey paint remained; while the two guns had shed their coats through the tremendous heat generated by the sustained firing. The bridge had been swept clean away; only a few bent and twisted stanchions remained. With its disappearance the top of the conning-tower was revealed, the massive steel plating showing signs of a complete fracture that extended from the edge about to the centre of the elongated, domed roof.
The sight was not an encouraging one. It was evident that the "Anzac" had received a terrible hammering and was no longer able to keep her station.
Tressidar next devoted his attention to the rest of the flotilla. The remaining monitors had fared considerably better. One, however, had lost her tripod mast, while damage to topmasts and wireless masts seemed pretty general. They had succeeded in breaking down most of the resistance on the part of the enemy, for with few exceptions the shore batteries were silent. Aided by wireless from the seaplanes that serenely hovered over the German defence, the monitors' guns had wrought terrific destruction upon the fixed positions amongst the sand-dunes. Most of the hostile shells came from mobile batteries, which were more difficult to locate; but as their guns were limited in weight and calibre, these were puny when compared with the monster weapons that the monitors had succeeded in silencing.
All this Tressidar took in almost at a glance. He had two tasks to perform: to rescue the A.P. from his perilous position and to inform the conning-tower of the state of the registering apparatus.
Mentally he compared the present situation with that on board the "Heracles," when he had to take Midshipman Picklecombe down from the fore-top. Eric Greenwood was a hefty man, whereas the midshipman was a mere slip of a youth. The "Anzac" was still under fire—a desultory one, but none the less nerveracking—while the "Heracles" was not subjected to the attentions of hostile shells when she was on the point of turning turtle. Again, there was a vast difference between the ratlines of the cruiser and the slippery steel rungs of the monitor's tripod mast.
"It's more than a one-man job," decided Tressidar reluctantly. "There isn't enough rope to lower him down. I'll nip below and get assistance."
The A.P. was now unconscious. He had fallen sideways, his head resting on his arm Even as Tressidar bent over him he became aware that the whole fabric of the fire-control platform was collapsing. The tripods, already damaged, had given way under the strain and were toppling overboard.
Throwing his left arm round Greenwood's inert body and hanging on like grim death to a steel handrail, Tressidar braced himself to meet his impending fate. The platform was inclining slowly but surely. Already his feet were wedged against the now almost horizontal side. Through the shattered roof he could see the water.
"There'll be a deuce of a smash," he thought. "Wonder if I can jump clear before we're trapped?"
The triple mast had buckled, but its fall was retarded by the strain upon the metal tubing. Instead of snapping off like a carrot, it was as though the tripod was held by a stiff and rusty hinge.
For perhaps five seconds the fall was retarded, then with a quick movement the bulky top-hamper lurched with a sickening movement until it brought up across the broad deck, with the metal box in which the sub. and his chum were penned hanging seven or eight feet over the side.
Bruised and shaken, Tressidar retained his alertness of mind and body. Without relaxing his grip upon his chum he scrambled through the partly demolished roof. It was the only way, since the aperture in the floor was too small for a hurried exit, especially when burdened with a helpless comrade.
Not knowing how he did it, the sub. found himself perched on the mast with the A.P. clasped tightly to his back. Now it was that his gymnastic training proved of service, for, in spite of his burden, he walked the outboard part of the now almost horizontal mast and dropped lightly to the "Anzac's" deck—the only unwounded executive officer of the crippled monitor.