CHAPTER XXVIII
In Action—'Tween Decks
On parting with Peter Corbold, Cavendish made his way for'ard, through the battery and out by the armoured door of the screen. Throughout his progress, he could not help remarking upon the enthusiasm of the crews of the quick-firers as they cleared away and triced up the mess-tables and closed up round their guns.
They were the pick of Britain's manhood, for the most part men under twenty-five, tall, deep-chested, clean-shaven fellows, looking in their singlets and trousers like zealously-trained athletes.
The battery was in semi-darkness, save for the yellow gleam of the candles in the battle-lanterns. Oil lamps, for obvious reasons, were not lighted, while the electric lamps were disconnected from their holders and stowed away. The lesson of Jutland had shown how dangerous an electric-light globe can be. The concussion of gunfire alone will shatter it into a thousand jagged little fragments with disastrous results as far as the bare feet of the guns' crews are concerned.
Fire-hoses, sending their jets of water from their unions, lay along the deck like healthy serpents, ready to trip the unwary. "Present use" ammunition was stacked in the rear of the guns, ready to feed their rapacious maws when the order to open fire with the secondary armament was received. Above the chatter of men's voices came the rattle of the ammunition cages and the steady purr of the engines far below the waterline.
"Close up round your guns, my lads," the bronzed and bearded gunner kept on shouting, "close up and give the greasy swine socks when the time comes."
Arriving at his action station, Cavendish climbed the short iron ladder and passed through the narrow doorway in the rear of the turret. Blades, the officer in charge, gave him a delighted grin.
"No blessed mist this time, Weeds," he observed. "It'll be an almighty hammering... what's that, Petty-officer?"
"Crew numbered off, sir; all present and correct, sir."
"Very good—test loading-gear. Then stand by."
Blades turned away to watch operations. Cavendish, his work not yet begun, stood behind the turret-trainer under the sighting-hood.
"Anything in sight yet?" inquired Cavendish.
"Nothing yet, sir," was the reply, as the P.O. stepped aside to allow his officer to peep out.
Cavendish placed his eyes to the rubber-rimmed periscope. As he did so, he heard the order given, "load all cages!" The show was about to open.
He could see nothing but an expanse of sunlit sea and sky. Out there lay the hostile fleet, but still below the horizon, although no doubt visible from the fore-top and fire-control platform.
"We'll be firing by direction, sir," supplemented the turret-trainer.
Even as he looked, Cavendish's range of vision was obscured by a white wall of spray. The enemy's opening salvo had fallen short.
"Train fifteen red!"
The turret turned smoothly—so smoothly that Cavendish was hardly conscious of the pivotal movement. The breeches of both weapons sank gently as the muzzles reared themselves almost to extreme elevation.
The lieutenant moved away from the sighting-hood and watched the massive steel monsters for the recoil that would announce that the master-hand well outside the turret had completed the circuit that would send the mighty projectiles on their pre-ordained flight.
There was a breathless silence, broken only by subdued noises down in the working-chamber and the crash of a salvo that had passed handsomely over the ship.
"Train twenty-five green!"
Back rolled the turret until the still silent weapons were trained on the bearing ordered.
A suspense of a few long-drawn seconds, then with a roar the guns of A and B turrets spoke simultaneously and with no uncertain voice.
The period of inaction was over.
Recoiling to the full extent of their hydraulic buffers, the huge weapons jumped forward again into loading-position. Men sprang to the breech-blocks; a strong whiff of burnt cordite wafted back into the confined space of the turret. The huge 15-inch projectiles were rammed home by the mechanically operated rammer; followed the bag containing the propelling charge; and again the breech-blocks closed with a deep metallic clang.
A brief pause, and again the pair of guns recoiled.
Apart from watching the turret crew "carrying on" as rapidly and as smoothly as a well-ordered machine, Cavendish began to feel decidedly bored. There was a most terrific clamour going on without—probably the "five-point-fives" of the starboard battery were getting to work. In that case, he decided, there might be something to be seen.
He touched the turret-trainer on the shoulder. The man stepped aside. Cavendish applied his eyes to the periscope. He could see nothing. Even if the enemy ships had closed to within a few thousand yards, they were still invisible, for the front glass of the periscope was blackened and smudged with smoke, oil, and water. The continuous concussion was positively painful. The noise and rattle of a dozen pneumatic hammers in a double bottom was nothing to it.
Cavendish had lost all idea of time. He glanced at his wristlet watch. It told him that he had been in the turret only five minutes. A second look showed that the watch had stopped.
Just then, Blades, the lieutenant of the turret, caught sight of him.
"Hello, old thing!" he exclaimed. "You haven't been sent for yet?"
"No," shouted Cavendish in reply. "And don't want to be sent for. Shows everything's going on all right. I'll——"
A jet of greasy oil forced through a broken gland struck Cavendish in the face and interrupted his words.
"Faugh!" he ejaculated. "Your beastly turret again."
"Sorry, old man!" replied Blades, apologizing for the misbehaviour of his beloved "box o' tricks". "'Tany rate, if that's all you get, you're lucky."
One of the turret guns' crew appeared and put his face close to Cavendish's ear.
"Message through from Captain, sir," he reported. "'E wants you to go aft and report, seein' as 'ow the ship's been badly 'it."
The two officers exchanged glances.
"Good old Weeds!" exclaimed Blades. "'England expects', and all that sort of thing, you know."
"Yes, I know," agreed Cavendish, with a wry grimace.
Turning up his coat-collar, although it was not until afterwards that he recognized the futility of the action, Cavendish scrambled out of the turret. Wriggling like an eel and feeling very forlorn and unhappy out in the open, he slid over and gained the port superstructure ladder. Cordite-laden clouds were sweeping past him as the guns of B turret fired simultaneously. He could feel the blast and the back-draught much too close to be pleasant. A murderer making for one of the Jewish cities of refuge couldn't have sprinted in quicker time or in greater funk than he did in his mad rush for the door of the superstructure—only to find that aperture barred and bolted.
Hardly knowing how he did it, Cavendish found himself clambering over the remains of the cutter, his progress hastened by a shell that burst against the horizontal leg of the tripod mast, fortunately without carrying it away or bowling the lieutenant over by the shower of splinters.
Right along the deserted mess deck Cavendish hurried. Here and there were fairly round holes where projectiles had passed through the thin steel plating. Soon he located the serious damage; a 14-inch shell had completely penetrated the armour at the water-line and had exploded between decks.
The shell had played havoc. The compartment was so full of smoke that it was impossible to enter without a respirator. A fire had broken out, the corticine and shattered teak planking allowing it to get a good hold until the water, pouring in through the shell-hole every time the ship rolled to starboard, put most of it out. Right beneath was the after dressing station, already occupied by twenty or thirty cases, most of them suffering from burns. Through a hole in the deck, water was liberally flowing in upon the medical staff and their patients.
Shouting for a fire-party, Cavendish soon had the rest of the flames under control, the badly damaged hoses notwithstanding. Then came the task of plugging the shell-hole in the armour plate. This was accomplished by means of a number of rolled hammocks shored up with timber.
The lieutenant, finding that nothing more could be done, dismissed the party and went below the armoured deck to reassure the Surgeon Commander.
"How goes it?" demanded the Medical Officer.
"Dashed if I do know," replied Cavendish. "I was in too tearing a hurry. Couldn't see anything if I wanted to. But I know we're keeping our end up."
"And the enemy?"
"No use asking me," persisted the lieutenant. "I've heard nothing, seen nothing. You've had a busy time, Doc."
The Surgeon Commander gave a quick glance round the crowded dressing-station.
"Twenty-eight," he replied, "and every man-jack a perfect brick. Not a whine amongst the crowd. And some of them are—well—thank God for morphia!"
He picked up an instrument from the sterilizing bowl and turned away. Already he had performed five amputations by the light of a few candle lamps, with the place shaking like a house during an earthquake, and stuffy with fumes from the shell that had burst on the deck immediately overhead.
At the head of the ladder, Cavendish was intercepted by one of the carpenter's crew.
"I've been sent to fetch you, sir," explained the man. "There's a nasty mess up for'ard."
The lieutenant hurried along the mess-deck, negotiating various obstacles and passing groups of men "standing easy". Many inquiries they made of how things were going, but Cavendish, beyond reassuring them, could give no definite news.
When at length he arrived upon the scene of the damage for'ard, he looked grave.
A 15-inch shell had penetrated the unarmoured end, twenty feet abaft the stem, blowing jagged rents in the plating and in places starting whole sheets of metal from their frames. The cable stowed in the manger had been flung about like string. A fire had been started, but had been already got under control by the fire-party, who, under the orders of the chief carpenter, were endeavouring to plug the rents with canvas and bedding.
It was a useless task. The sea was pouring in like a mill race, washing men and gear away like corks. The sunlight was streaming through the gaps into the smoke-laden compartment, giving Cavendish the impression that he was in a train about to emerge from a tunnel—only that the din was a hundred times greater.
The only thing to be done was to abandon this compartment.
[Illustration: "WEEDS! BEAR A HAND!" Page 275]
The water-tight doors and bulkhead were shored up with kit-bags, hammocks, and balks of timber. Cavendish stood by and watched as the bow compartment filled. The barricade bulged slightly. Streams of water oozed through the started rivet holes in the bulkhead. The steelwork groaned—but it stood the strain. So far so good.
Telling off a hand to keep watch over the bulkhead and dismissing the rest of the party, Cavendish made his way to the trunk of the conning-tower, whence by means of a ladder and a manhole he could gain the conning-tower itself.
Here he found the Captain and reported the damage. "All right; carry on," was the response.
The Rebound had stopped and was already losing way. She was so deep down by the bows that it would have been imprudent to continue to steam ahead. A destroyer, in obedience to a signal, was alongside for the purpose of transferring the admiral and his staff to another ship.
From one of the officers in the conning-tower, Cavendish learnt something definite. The enemy were in flight. Three, possibly four, of their capital ships had been sunk. The rest had been badly mauled. The Numancia, which under a different name was at one time a crack ship of the Brazilian navy, and had recently been acquired by Rioguay, had been so severely punished that she had surrendered to the British destroyer Audax. The Audax herself was in a sinking condition, so her commander promptly turned over his crew to the prize, secured the survivors of the Rioguayan under hatches, and compelled the republican engine-room ratings to carry on. The Numancia was thus able to render considerable service to her new masters by finishing off a pair of hostile cruisers that, although disabled, were still capable of discharging their torpedoes.
"And you're deucedly lucky, old top," continued Cavendish's informant.
"I don't see how," rejoined the lieutenant.
"Then have a look at B turret," suggested the other. "That was your action station, I believe."
By this time the admiral's flag had been transferred.
The Captain and the rest of the conning-tower staff were making their way to the after citadel, for the ship was gathering sternway. Although unable to keep her place in the line, she could still render good service with the guns of Q and X turrets.
As far as the Rebound was concerned, there was a decided lull in the action. In turning through sixteen points, she had of necessity lost a considerable distance and was a good five miles astern of the Royal Oak and the three other battleships.
Cavendish went to the front of the badly damaged fire-bridge in order to see the damage to B turret. Clouds of smoke, pouring from both funnels and from a huge rent in the base of the foremost funnel, were sweeping for'ard. It was impossible to see with any distinctness.
Descending to the boat deck, the lieutenant noticed that the inclined leg of the tripod mast was wreathed in smoke, and that the boat deck all around it had been torn away. A party of marines and stokers were playing hoses on the smouldering débris, and in answer to Cavendish's inquiries, replied that the fire was almost out.
"Weeds! Bear a hand, there's a good sort!"
Hearing his nickname shouted, Cavendish glanced aloft. Clinging to the lowermost intact rungs of the badly damaged tripod was Peter Corbold, with something looking like a scarecrow lashed across his shoulders.
"Right-o!" bawled Cavendish. "Hang on a bit. I'll get you down."
"I can hang on for two minutes," rejoined Peter.
Realizing that there was no time to be lost, Cavendish turned out a party of bluejackets. A block was not to be had, but a length of two-inch rope was soon forthcoming. A hurried test proved it to be serviceable. One of the men swarmed up the jagged leg of the tripod like a cat, regardless of lacerated fingers and ankles. In a few seconds the rope with a "bowline on the bight" at one end was rove through one of the rungs above Peter's head. His burden was transferred to the bowline and lowered away until the unconscious midshipman was level with the shell-torn boat-deck and dangling in the centre of the jagged hole.
By the aid of a short length of rope, the snottie was drawn within arm's reach of three or four bluejackets, and before Peter gained the deck the lad he had rescued was well on his way to the dressing station.
"Hit, Peter?" inquired Cavendish laconically, as he noticed the smoke begrimed, blood-stained face of his chum.
"Don't think so," replied Peter, stretching his arms to relieve the cramped muscles. "How are things going?"
Except for the funnel smoke and wisps of steam and smoke from a dozen different sources, the air for some miles around was comparatively clear. In the distance could be discerned the four battleships still firing heavily. The hostile fleet, or, rather, those still flying the Rioguayan ensign, were invisible in the haze of gunfire.
Away on the port hand was a British light cruiser with a heavy list. Flames and smoke, were pouring between her funnels. A destroyer was standing by to rescue her crew. Astern were a couple of enemy destroyers, badly damaged, but displaying the White Ensign over the Republican colours. Close to them were the bows of another destroyer sticking up vertically to a height of about thirty feet above the surface. Everywhere were large patches of black oil and débris of all descriptions.
"We've whacked 'em," replied Cavendish. "Come along, old thing, if you're fit. I've got to look at B turret."
The ship was now making about twelve knots, going astern the whole time. Most of the crew were on deck to get a well-earned breather and to watch the progress of the running fight.
Cavendish stood stock still when he caught sight of what had been his action station. B turret was completely out of action. Only a few minutes after he had been sent aft, a 15-inch projectile had landed squarely on the face of the turret below the sighting-hood. Penetrating the 11-inch armour, it had burst with devastating effect in the confined space of the turret. Several massive steel plates had been dislodged from the roof of the hood; the two 15-inch guns had been displaced from their mountings, with their muzzles resting on the deck. Those of the crew who had escaped from the direct explosion of the shell were killed by the ignition of a couple of cordite charges. The resulting fire was the one Corbold had seen from the top. Fortunately the men filling the trays at the foot of the ammunition trunk realized the danger of the down-blast and, acting on their own initiative, flooded the magazine.
When Peter and Cavendish arrived upon the scene, smoke was still issuing from the roof of the turret. Fire parties were at work with hoses, pouring volumes of water into the shell-wrecked charnel-house that had not long since been tenanted by thirty officers and men.
For the present nothing more could be done.
Suddenly Peter gave a glance to the west'ard. The sun was on the point of setting.
"By Jove," he exclaimed, "I thought it was nearly time for seven-bell tea, and it's close on four bells in the first dog. Let's get some grub."
"Right-o!" agreed Cavendish soberly, for he was still thinking of his late comrades of B turret. "Let's. We mayn't have another chance, 'specially if we go into action during the night."