CHAPTER XIX
The Decoy Ship
That same afternoon, Sub-lieutenant Cavendish went on leave. That was the official version given out to his messmates. They saw him depart in a taxi, rigged out in mufti and with a prodigious amount of "kit" that suggested a "tidy drop o' leaf". Cavendish's home was in the Midlands, within a few miles of Grantham—but that was not his objective. Two hours later, he put up at a modest hotel in Southampton, patronized almost exclusively by Master Mariners of the Mercantile Marine.
The next day he joined the S.S. Complex at Southampton Docks as Third Officer.
The Complex was a tramp of 570 tons displacement, belonging to the port of Grimsby, if the information painted on her stern were correct. She was 230 feet in length. She had the usual raised fo'c'sle and poop, with deckhouses and bridge amidships just for'ard of her solitary funnel. Her fore- and mainmasts were of the "pole" type, with the customary appendages in the shape of derricks.
She was under orders for Buenos Ayres with a cargo consisting principally of cork.
The tramp resembled her kind in the matter of paint. Her sides were supposed to be black, but there were several irregular patches of red-lead, and broad streaks of iron rust. Her crew, rigged out in nondescript garments, were still stowing cargo. She had raised steam and the Blue Peter fluttered from the foremast head.
But, although her topsides were disreputable, the same could not be said of her hull below the waterline. The bottom had recently been coated with dull-grey anti-fouling composition, her owners being evidently of the opinion that it was false economy to pay for extra fuel simply to drive a barnacle-encrusted hull through the water.
Checking an almost irresistible impulse to salute the quarter-deck as he came over the gangway, Cavendish went aft to report to the "Old Man", who was standing at the head of the poop-ladder, rigged out in blue cloth trousers, waistcoat with tarnished brass buttons, and a cap bearing a salt-stained badge of a well-known shipping firm, perched awry on his close-cropped head. He was in his shirt sleeves. A very seasoned black briar pipe was between his strong, even teeth.
"Hello, Weeds!" exclaimed the Old Man; "so you fetched here all right? You'll find Seton and Carr down below. They'll tell you where your cabin is. 'Fraid you won't find it very ship-shape, old thing."
A sailor came slouching aft.
"Beg pardon, sir!" he announced with a pukka naval salute. "There's a Board of Trade chap come to see you."
Captain Meredith gave a gesture of annoyance. It was decidedly unhealthy to have too many officious shore-people on board.
"All right," he replied. "And look here, Johnson, can't you remember not to give salutes? Or must I send you back to the Depot?"
The man grinned and went off.
"That's one of my hardest jobs," commented the Old Man. "Trying to make an A.B. forget what has been drilled into him from the first day he joined at Shotley. And look here, Weeds, you're not a credit to the ship. Your rig-out is just a trifle too smart and too new. Try toning it down with a little tar."
Captain Meredith hurried off to interview the Board of Trade Inspector, leaving Cavendish to his own resources on the deck of the S.S. Complex.
Only the previous day the Complex had come out of Portsmouth Harbour as the Cynesepion. She had been hurriedly docked, her bottom cleaned and coated in less than six hours. Her armament, consisting of one 4.7, four 12-pounders, and a couple of 3-pounder high-angle guns, had in the dead of night been placed in their elaborately concealed mountings. Her holds and double-bottoms were packed tightly with cork; ammunition, stores, and oil fuel were placed on board, and with a naval crew, she was taken out of Portsmouth to the Motherbank, off Ryde.
Here the uniformed crew were taken off by a Government tug—leaving only twenty "hands" under a couple of officers to take the ship round to Southampton.
Almost their first act was to paint out the name Cynesephon and substitute that of Complex.
Cavendish went below. In the alley-way he encountered Robin Seton, whom, until that moment, Cavendish had imagined to be undergoing a course at "Whaley"—a "two and a half striper", now posing as the first officer of the tramp.
"Cheerio, George!" was Seton's greetings. "Now our little band of merry wreckers is complete. Seen Carr and Warrender? They're sculling around somewhere. My word!"
He stepped back and critically looked Cavendish up and down.
"My word!" he continued. "I've never seen such a smart-looking Third Mate before."
"So the Old Man remarked—or words to that effect," rejoined Cavendish, with a laugh. "No matter. Live and learn. Where did you pick up your rig-out?"
Seton held open his coat for inspection.
"Got kitted out in the Ditches for something like half a dozen Bradburys," he replied proudly. "Sent the gunner's mate along to make a deal. And he did. He knows the ropes."
Cavendish wished that he had known of the gunner's mate's capabilities in the wardrobe department. He had laid out over twenty-five pounds in an outfit that had already been twice remarked upon as being out of place. He quite agreed that the hardest part of the job was not to be smart, and to forget that he was an officer of the Royal Navy.
The Sub was shown his cabin. He reappeared twenty minutes later looking more his part.
The Complex was under way. She had just parted company with a fussy little tug that had coaxed, cajoled, pulled, and pushed her out of the Empress Dock. Southampton lay astern, the Weston Shelf buoy was broad on the port-beam, while ahead lay the wide stretch of Southampton Water, until it merged into the Solent beyond the airship sheds at Calshot Castle.
There was plenty of traffic, from gigantic ocean liners to steam-lighters and "spreeties"—low-lying barges with a generous spread of tanned canvas. Tramp steamers, topsail schooners, steam, motor, and sailing yachts, tugs, "hoppers", and fishing-smacks passed in endless procession, little knowing the venomous nature of the little Complex as she ploughed her way through the calm water at a modest nine knots.
It was Alec Carr, the navigator, who showed Cavendish round the ship. Carr, a burly, six feet two inch giant, hailing from North Berwick, was the man for that job. He, like the Captain, knew the ship from end to end, since both had served in a similar craft during the later stages of the Great War.
The transformation had been an astounding one. From a long, low-lying "P" boat, she had been altered into a very presentable tramp, looking at least of 1500 tons, although her actual displacement was little more than one-third of that tonnage. Yet she retained the speed and high manoeuvring qualities of her original role. She could work up to 23 knots when required, could turn almost in her own length and with the minimum of "tactical advance". She could go astern at 18 knots, while her nominal fuel capacity of 93 tons could be augmented sufficiently to give her a cruising distance of 4000 miles without replenishing her oil tanks.
For armament, she was adequately provided with weapons calculated to deal with anything short of a cruiser. The 4.7-inch gun was housed in the fore-hold, the gun and its mounting being raised when required by hydraulic pressure. On either side of the deck-house under the bridge was a 12-pounder, each concealed by a section of the dummy bulwarks, while by lowering two of the wings of the deck-house an arc of fire of 160° could be obtained. Two more were as skilfully concealed aft, while the 6-pounders were mounted in boats stowed on top of the deck-house abaft the mainmast. The boats were dummies, constructed to fall apart by means of hinges and quick-release gear.
In addition she carried four 14-inch torpedo tubes of the "submerged" type, and a couple of mortars for discharging depth charges at a range of two hundred yards.
The "P-boat's" original conning-tower was still in existence, although, owing to the new superstructure, its sphere of usefulness was considerably curtailed. Another had been built for'ard.
Cavendish walked right round the latter and never spotted it. Outwardly, nothing was to be seen but a big reel of wire hawser. The reel was a dummy, being actually the hood of the armoured conning-tower.
"See the idea?" inquired Carr. "If, by a bit of luck, we do fall in with a pirate, he'll start shelling the bridge. We found that with Fritz. Let him shell. There'll be no one there, and from this little box of tricks our skipper can keep an eye on him until he decides it's time to put him in his place—to wit, Davy Jones his locker."
"What's your opinion about the loss of these merchant vessels?" asked Cavendish.
Carr shook his head.
"Ask me another," he replied. "That's what we're sent to find out."
The Complex was now well down the Solent. Yarmouth(1) was on the port bow, Lymington to starboard, and the high light of Hurst right ahead, rising like a needle out of the sun-flecked water.
A light cruiser, with her distinguishing signals displayed and a commodore's broad pennant flying from the masthead, came pelting along, passing the decoy ship a cable's length to port. The Complex dipped her ragged, smoke-begrimed Red Ensign. Carr and Cavendish exchanged glances.
"I was expecting the 'Still' to sound," declared the former. "Wonder what Old Man Meredith thought of it all?"
As a matter of fact, Captain Meredith, D.S.O. (with bar), had almost given himself away, and his vessel as well, by ordering the strangely-garbed crew to attention. To deliberately ignore a commodore's broad pennant was the most trying experience he had had that day, which was saying a lot.
"Think we'll have any luck?" asked Cavendish, reverting to the burning topic of the hour—the hoped-for meeting with an as yet mythical pirate.
"Goodness knows," replied Carr. "I trust so. 'Tany rate, whether we're up against a submarine or a commerce destroyer, we'll give 'em a thundering good run for their money."
For the next few days, all hands were busily engaged in rehearsing for the forthcoming show. Every member of the crew took up his cue with zest, confident that should occasion arise they would play their part to the utmost satisfaction of the navy generally, and themselves in particular, and to the complete discomfiture of the enemy—whoever or whatever he might be.
The drills took two distinct forms. The first was that of countering an attack by a surface ship. In this case, with the exception of a few hands leaning idly over the bulwarks and a couple of officers on the bridge, the crew were at action stations and carefully hidden from external observation. Right aft, crouching in a steel shelter made to resemble a skylight, was a seaman holding the uncleated halliards of the ensign staff. It was his duty, on hearing the "action" gong, to strike the Red Ensign and substitute the White. Simultaneously, all gun-screens were to be lowered and every gun that could be trained on the target was to open fire, while below the waterline the L.T.O.'s stood by the torpedo tubes ready to launch the deadly missiles on an invisible objective; the direction of the "run" being governed by controls from the conning-tower.
Should the piratical craft turn out to be a submarine, the procedure was of an entirely different nature. The enemy might approach submerged and torpedo her prey. In that event, the "panic-party" would make a wild rush for the boats. One of the boats would be purposely lowered by one of the falls only, so that it would tumble bows on into the water. The "abandon ship" stunt would then be carried out, the men in the boats rowing desperately from the sinking ship.
"'Ere you—bow an' number three," bellowed the coxswain. "Stop grinnin'. You ain't a bloomin' picnic party. Look as if you was scared stiff. No! Don't for goodness' sake pull together. You ain't pullin' for the Squadron Cup. You're supposed to be goin' for dear life. Pull any'ow, as if Old Nick were in the perishin' boat."
The rest of the decoy ship's crew were at action stations, supposedly on a foundering vessel, although it was to be expected that even if torpedoed the Complex would keep afloat by reason of the "cargo" of cork. There, prone in their places of concealment, unable to see what was going on, they had to wait until the submarine appeared awash and on a suitable bearing for the guns to be brought into action.
If the submarine declined to investigate and the Complex was really sinking, there was nothing for the crew of the latter to do but to abandon ship in earnest and trust that a wireless message to the destroyers perhaps a hundred miles away would bring succour and perhaps retribution, should the lurking enemy be located by aerial observation from co-operating seaplanes.
Then, again, there was the chance of the submarine coming to the surface and shelling the Complex at long range. That was the most trying situation of all. The supposed tramp had to withhold her fire and take her gruelling without replying. The only thing to be done was to stop engines, start a fire on board, and, by flooding the for'ard water-tight compartments, give the impression that she was sinking by the bows. Then arose the question: would the submarine close sufficiently for the decoy ship's guns to bear and fire with fatal consequence to her foe? For the Complex to reveal herself as a formidably armed warship and at the same time to allow the submarine to get away, was the worst thing that could happen. To destroy was the Complex's mission; anything short of that meant failure—glorious failure, perhaps, but none the less futile.
Sub-lieutenant Cavendish's action station was by the two after 12-pounders, his duty being to keep the enemy under observation through a periscope. The latter was cleverly disguised as a galley-funnel. The post was a hazardous one—rather more than the rest. Since the Complex, if shelled by a submarine, had to simulate flight, the after part of the ship would bear the brunt of things. Then it was quite possible that the depth-charges might be exploded by shell-fire and blow the poop and everyone near it to smithereens. Cavendish had to admit, with a shivering sensation in the region of his spine, that Commander Broadstairs' hint of the dangerous nature of the mission for which the Sub had volunteered was by no means an exaggeration.
1) In the Isle of Wight.