CHAPTER XXVII
In Action—Fore-top
Eight bells had just sounded off. Cavendish, the officer of the forenoon watch, had been relieved and was descending the bridge-ladder, when he ran against Peter Corbold, who, having completed the daily examination of the anti-aircraft gadgets on board the flagship, was about to report to the Commander.
"Hello, Weeds," exclaimed Peter. "Nothing through, I suppose?"
Cavendish shook his head.
"Absolutely nothing," he replied. "Patrolling destroyers twenty-five miles ahead of us haven't reported even a single sail. It's my belief the blighters have given us the slip and are back in the Rio Guaya. As for——"
The sentence remained unfinished. A shrill bugle-call rent the air, its meaning as clear as its note.
"Action stations at the double," exclaimed Peter. "That's business. S'long, old bird."
The two chums parted company, Cavendish making for B turret, while Peter, having paid a hurried visit to his cabin for his gas mask, binoculars, life-saving waistcoat, and emergency ration, began the ascent to the fore-top.
Here he found two other officers and three ratings; a midshipman followed, so that seven people were occupying rather cramped quarters in a steel, roofed-in box, 120 feet above the water-line.
Peter's duties were chiefly confined to taking notes of the impending action. He was also to keep a lookout for hostile aircraft. Should any Rioguayan flying-boat appear in sight, he was to immediately warn the party told off to man the new anti-aircraft devices. The apparatus, until actually required, was kept below the armoured deck, whence it could be whipped up into position and connected with the dynamos supplying the necessary electric current.
It was a weird experience. Viewed from aloft, the fore-deck and superimposed turrets of the Rebound looked like a model. Even the enormous beam of the ship—slightly over a hundred feet—was dwarfed to such an extent that it seemed possible to jump clear of the sides.
The guns of A and B turrets were being turned with a view to testing the training gear. Smoothly and easily the enormous weapons, looking no bigger than twin pairs of lead pencils projecting from an oval-shaped inverted dish, swung first on one beam and then on the other; at one moment trained to full elevation, at another depressed until the line of fire hardly cleared the slightly up-curved fo'c'sle.
Ten feet above Peter's head the huge range-finder was being adjusted by a gunnery lieutenant, his assistant standing by with telephones and voice-tubes ready to communicate with the transmitting station for "direction" firing.
The wind shrieked through the wire stays and shrouds and whistled past the now unemployed signal halliards, for the battleships had worked up to a speed of twenty-two knots. Each ship had hoisted two battle-ensigns, the wind-stretched bunting presenting the only dash of colour amidst a general tone of grey.
The four battleships were still in line ahead, the following craft being almost hidden in the dense cloud of smoke from the flagship's funnels.
Three miles to port and starboard were the light cruisers, standing out clearly in the tropical sunshine. Farther away, ahead, astern, and on both beams, were the destroyers detailed for anti-submarine work, while two separate flotillas, held in reserve for a torpedo attack upon the Rioguayan fleet, were almost invisible in the waste of sun-flecked water.
Broad on the port beam could be discerned the land, San Valodaran territory. Farther astern the coast-line dipped. The gap was the broad estuary of the Rio Guaya. The British admiral had got between the enemy and their sole means of regaining port. Provided he could head the Rioguayan fleet away from neutral territorial waters, he knew that there was nothing to prevent his bringing them to an engagement.
Again and again Peter swept the horizon ahead with his binoculars. Nothing—not even a blur of smoke—obscured the clearly defined line which cut sea and sky. But far away out yonder wireless messages were being sent by the scouting destroyers, announcing with ever increasing certainty that the enemy was still coming south.
Two bells of the afternoon watch sounded off. Peter could hardly realize that fifty minutes had elapsed since he ascended to his eyrie. Surely it was about time, with the rival fleets approaching at an aggregate rate of from forty to fifty-five knots, that something was seen of the enemy?
A few seconds later and a triple hoist of bunting crept past the fore-top. Fifty answering pennants were almost immediately hoisted on fifty different ships, large and small. Then a burst of cheering—a huge volume of sound—came from the invisible crews of the battleships, to be taken up by their comrades in the cruisers and on until the furthermost destroyer within signalling distance joined in the roar of appreciation.
It was the Admiral's battle signal:
"Strike hard, strike straight for England."
"There they are, by smoke!" exclaimed one of Peter's companions in the fore-top.
Peter raised his glasses. With uncanny suddenness, the hitherto unbroken skyline was dotted with the masts, funnels, and superstructures of a host of vessels, their hulls still below the horizon. Approaching each other at the rate of an express train, the rival fleets were now within visual distance or, roughly, fifteen miles.
The destroyers that had been on ahead of the battleships, their mission for the time being accomplished, had turned tail and were taking station astern. The chance of getting to work with the deadly torpedo was not yet. Until gun-fire had demoralized the half-tried gunners of the Rioguayan battleships, it was a purposeless, futile business to dispatch thinly-plated destroyers against armoured ships bristling with quick-firers.
Suddenly Peter caught a glimpse of a couple of flying-boats hovering well in advance of the British ships. Apparently they were engaged upon reconnoitring duties—for they made no attempt to take up a position favourable for bomb-dropping.
As a matter for precaution, Peter turned out one of the anti-aircraft apparatus with its crew, but it was neither the time nor the occasion to make use of the rays. Had the hostile aircraft been bombing machines intent upon scoring a hit, the case would have been different; but they were spotting machines, up to record the results of salvoes and to acquaint the Rioguayan admiral of the disposition of the British ships. The light cruisers would deal with them.
It was the Cadogan that brought her rays into action. Both flying-boats dropped like shot partridges, recovering in time to enable them to volplane to the water. Here they drifted helplessly until a destroyer ranged alongside each in succession, removed the crews, who did not offer the slightest resistance, and sent the abandoned aircraft to the bottom.
"Neat work that," thought Peter. "It proves that friend Ramon Diaz hasn't found an antidote for the rays. Apparently he's satisfied with stealing Uncle Brian's secret."
Meanwhile the four battleships had deployed into single line abreast, each with the object of getting its four 15-inch guns of A and B turrets to bear upon the enemy.
So engrossed was Peter with the little episode of the flying-boats, that the distant rumble of heavy gunfire—sounding like a subdued thudding upon a bass drum—failed to attract his attention.
A few seconds later a veritable cauldron of foam, a dozen separate pillars of spray, announced to him and to a favoured few who could see what was going on outside the ship, that the action had commenced by the enemy opening fire. As a gratifying corollary was the knowledge that the salvo had fallen short.
"Sixteen thousand five hundred," chaunted the range-finding lieutenant, the moment the battleship had emerged from the slowly dispersing wall of spray.
"Train fifteen red," sang out another voice in a lower key.
The two for'ard turrets swung a few degrees to the left. The long lean guns rose slowly, as if roused from slumber.
Again the distant rumble. This time Peter could see the massive hostile projectiles approaching. The air seemed stiff with them,... and they were coming his way. Instinctively he ducked behind the thin steel plating of the fore-top—a protection hardly more serviceable than brown paper. The beastly shells seemed in no great hurry.... He could see the bright copper rifling bands on the dark grey bodies of the projectiles.
"Train twenty-five green," came the clear level tones again.
The Rebound had starboarded helm, and the enemy, instead of being on her port, were now well on her starboard bow.
With an infernal screech, the salvo trundled past the flagship's foremast, falling within a radius of fifty yards, a good three cables' lengths astern.
"Straddled, by Jove!" ejaculated a midshipman with Peter in the fore-top. "Why the——?"
His question was interrupted by a deafening crash that shook the tripod mast like a bamboo in a hurricane. The steel platform seemed to jump bodily. A whiff of acrid-smelling cordite flicked over the edge of the steel breastwork.
Peter gave a sidelong glance at the midshipman. It was the youngster who, but a short while before, was gloating over the prospect of being in action. The boy's face was pale underneath the tan. He laughed—it was a forced laugh without any ring of sincerity about it. His heart was doubtless in his boots, but he was making a gallant effort to get it back into its right place.
Retrieving his binoculars, Corbold brought them to bear upon the distant target. The terrific concussion was the simultaneous discharge of the four 15-inch guns of A and B turrets. Already the salvo was on its way towards a target unseen by the fifty odd men cooped up within the two turrets. Eight miles away those shells, by the latest workings of the science of gunnery, were calculated to fall—and they did.
Through his glasses, Peter watched the receding flight of the huge missiles, each weighing more than a ton. The impact came. At first there was little to indicate to the observer's eye that they had done their work—just a few dark splashes on the light grey hull of a Rioguayan battleship—no more. But the next instant the scene had changed considerably. The projectiles had burst, not on impact, but after they had eaten into the vitals of the enemy ship. Lurid flashes leapt from her superstructure and from different parts of her lofty hull. One of her funnels sagged, hung irresolute, and then crashed across her port battery. Then flame-tinged smoke poured through a dozen unauthorized outlets. Reeling like a drunken man, the Rioguayan battleship hauled out of line and disappeared behind the ship next astern.
By this time the firing had become general. The four British battleships were letting rip as fast as the loading-trays could deliver shells and ammunition into the rapacious breeches of the enormous weapons. The din was terrific, while the vibration was so intense that the fore-top was shaking and rattling like a high-pressure engine on a faulty bed.
"Goodness only knows what we're here for," thought Peter, wiping the cordite dust from his eyes and shaking the beads of salt spray from the peak of his cap. "Can't see a blessed thing."
He continued to peer out automatically. There was little to be seen, save when an occasional lifting of the pall of spray and smoke enabled him to see the flashes of the guns of the Royal Oak and her consorts. His senses were benumbed by the continuous crashes. He was no longer afraid. A sort of stolid indifference seemed to take possession of the fragments of thought left in his brain. The whole business seemed a ghastly, bewildering nightmare.
A terrific crash, outvoicing every other noise in the pandemonium, shook the fore-top like a rattle. The occupants, hurled violently, subsided in a confused struggling heap upon the steel floor. For some moments they remained prostrate, making no effort to sort themselves out.
Peter opened his eyes, to close them quickly again. Someone's heel was beating a tattoo within an inch or so of his nose.
He wriggled clear and sat up. One of the bluejackets, wedged in an angle of the walls, was mopping the claret that welled from his nose. The two officers and the midshipman were sorting themselves out, looking too dazed to understand how they got there and what they were doing. The second bluejacket was muttering to himself as he fumbled in his jumper for some article that he had prized and lost.
"Anyone hit?" bawled Peter.
His words were inaudible, but no one showed any signs of serious injury. The fore-top was shaking badly—not only through the continuous concussion, but as if it were no longer firmly secured to the head of the tripod mast. The small oval aperture that opened into the principal leg of the tripod, and formed an alternative means of gaining the deck, was open. Wisps of smoke issued from it.
A man with a bandaged head appeared, squeezing with an obvious effort through the door. Peter recognized him as a petty-officer belonging to the range-finding party.
"Fair kippered that way, sir," he shouted. "A perishin' eel couldn't wriggle through. No, mast ain't carried away quite. 'S got a bulge in 'er. Lootenant, 'e told me to report verbally that our range-finder's knocked out, an' all controls smashed up."
Having explained his presence, the P.O. spat on his hands, hitched up his trousers, and lowered himself over the edge of the fore-top.
Peter, leaning over, watched him grip the rungs on the outside of the tripod and commence his eighty-odd feet descent. Then something else attracted the young officer's attention.
All was not well with A and B turrets. They had ceased firing. The smoke had cleared considerably, but from the riven roof of A turret a column of white flame was leaping almost as high as the platform on which Peter stood. He was unpleasantly aware of the heat. The updraught was like that of a blast-furnace. Someone touched him on the shoulder. Turning, he saw Ambrose, one of the officers with him on the top.
"Looks like the Queen Mary stunt," said Ambrose grimly. "We'll be blown sky high in half a shake."
Peter replied that that possibility was by no means remote. That white flame came from burning cordite. Once the fire got to the magazine the Rebound would be blown to smithereens.
"We shan't have to go as far as some of those poor blighters," continued Ambrose, with a wry smile. He came of a stock of fighting men, many of whom had met death with a jest on their lips.
It was indeed a desperate situation. The occupants of the fore-top were craning their necks over the sizzling flame. Projectiles were still hurtling through the air. Although the for'ard guns of the flagship had ceased fire, Q and X turrets were still hard at it, trained abeam to starboard. Smoke was pouring from the funnels and enveloping the fore-top. Either the wind had changed, or else the ship had swung round sixteen points and was retracing her course. At least, Peter imagined so, until a partial clearing of the smoke showed that the Rebound was going astern, but still towards the enemy line. Battered and bruised for'ard, and with her bows well down, she was still holding her place in the line.
Even as he watched, Peter fancied that the column of white flame was diminishing. Men, looking no larger than flies, were swarming round the turret with hoses directing powerful jets of water into the raging inferno. Steam mingled with the flame. The pillar of fire wavered, died down, flared up again, and finally went out like a guttered candle.
Losing all account of time, Peter "carried on"—doing absolutely nothing. His range of vision was limited, owing to dense clouds of smoke, steam, and spray. The turret sighters and men at the rangefinders on the "Argo" towers, could see much better than he, since the atmosphere was less obscured closer to the waterline and the opposing fleets had drawn to within torpedo range. As far as Corbold was concerned, existence seemed to be composed of a continual roar and vibration, punctuated by deeper concussions that indicated direct hits from Rioguayan guns. How the battle was progressing, he knew not. That it was being fiercely contested, he had no doubt, nor had he that ultimate victory would be with the ships flying the glorious White Ensign. He was beginning to feel horribly sick, for in addition to the distracting vibration, a whiff of poison gas-shell had wafted over the fore-top.
A flash of orange-coloured flame rent the billowing clouds of acrid-smelling smoke. The light seemed to spring from a source within a few feet of the tripod mast-head. Actually a 5.9-inch had glanced obliquely from the hood of B turret and had burst outside the massive steel walls of the conning-tower.
Again Peter was hurled against the side of the fore-top. How long he remained there, he had not the faintest recollection. At length he raised his head. His companions were strangely quiet, except the midshipman, who was vainly attempting to stifle his groans. There were jagged rents in the floor and in the sides of the fore-top; there were also holes punched as neatly as if done by a pneumatic drill. There were pools, too, of dark sticky liquid....
Peter struggled to his feet, somewhat surprised that he was able to do so. As far as he knew, he had not been hit. He turned his attention to his companions. Ambrose was lying on his side, his face pillowed on his left arm. There was the same grim smile on his face. He looked to be sleeping peacefully, but it was the sleep that knows no wakening on this earth. The other lieutenant and the two bluejackets were simply shattered lumps of clay. Only Peter and the midshipman were left alive out of the seven, since there was no trace of the third able seaman.
The snottie looked Peter in the face with eyes that resembled those of a sheep on the slaughter-block.
"I've stopped one," he exclaimed feebly. "'Fraid it's the last fielding I'll ever do."
His left leg was completely severed just below the knee, yet Peter noticed the stump was only bleeding very slightly. The shock had evidently contracted the torn arteries, but there was every possibility of a rush of life-blood before very long.
Fumbling with unsteady fingers at his first-aid outfit, Peter contrived to rig up a rough-and-ready tourniquet. His next step was to get the wounded lad down to the dressing-station. As far as he, personally, was concerned, there was not the slightest reason why he should remain in the wreck of the fore-top. The question was, how was he to get the midshipman down?
Even had the passage down and within the centre leg of the tripod been available (which it was not), the small diameter of the shaft would not have permitted the descent of one man with another clinging to his back. To lower the snottie was also out of the question, since the signal halliard nearest the mast had been shot away and no other rope was available. The only likely way was to descend on the outside of the mast by means of the rungs provided for that purpose.
"Can you hang on, do you think?" inquired Peter anxiously.
"I'll have a good shot at it, anyway," was the reply. As a matter of precaution, the young lieutenant knotted his scarf round the midshipman's body and his own. Then, heavily burdened, he let himself down through the jagged gap in the floor of the fore-top that had once been a trap-door.
Rung by rung he made his way, never once looking down and religiously adhering to the old sea maxim: "Never let go with more than one hand or foot at a time."
The eighty-odd feet descent seemed interminable. Momentarily, Peter's burden grew heavier. The lad's grip, at first so strong as to threaten to choke him, was becoming feebler. His own leg-muscles were giving indications of cramp, or else, perhaps, he had received an injury of which at the time he was unaware. Presently his left foot, groping for the next rung, failed to find a temporary resting-place. For the first time in the descent, Peter looked down. Where a series of rungs should have been, was a gaping void, encompassed by a saw-like edge of riven steel. In ordinary circumstances, he could have dropped without risk, since he was only about eight feet above the boat-deck. But where the leg of the tripod passed through the boat- and flying-decks was an abyss, out of which acrid fumes were wafting. A shell that had penetrated the side had burst on the upper-deck and had blown upwards, completely isolating the stricken leg of the tripod from the other two decks by a gap at least fifteen feet across.
"If I cast you adrift, can you hang on for a couple of minutes?" asked Peter, shouting at the top of his voice above the discordant din.
There was no response.
The midshipman had lost consciousness.