CHAPTER XVIII
A BIG PROPOSITION
"Know anything about motor bikes?" inquired Morpeth, helping himself to a liberal chunk of margarine and pushing the earthenware jar across to his companion. "After you with the jam. Thank heaven it's not the everlasting plum and apple!"
Meredith and the "owner" of Q 171 were at tea in the ward-room. Wakefield was taking deck duties in conjunction with the Q-boat's official sub-lieutenant—a youth of twenty, Ainslie by name.
Tea was served in war time fashion afloat—an iron-moulded table-cloth, two enamelled cups, plates of the same material, and wooden-handled steel knives that had evidently not made the acquaintance of a knife-board since they came aboard. A loaf of large and decidedly ancient appearance, a pot of jam and a generous pat of margarine (referred to in conversation as nut-butter) formed the edible part of the feast. Black, strongly brewed tea, condensed milk and moist sugar in more senses than one combined to provide liquid refreshment. The whole contents of the swing table were executing a rhythmic dance with the vibrations of the twin engines, the propeller shafts of which ran under and on either side of the table.
"I have one," replied Meredith. "At least I believe I have—unless my young brother has pinched it," he added feelingly and with the knowledge of past experiences. "Why?"
"Rather curious to know what you paid for it?" replied Morpeth.
"As a matter of fact I got it a great bargain from a pal of mine who was given a commission in '15," replied Meredith. "Twenty-two pounds."
"I guess I can beat that," remarked the R.N.R. officer, deliberately and deftly harpooning a slice of bread in the act of skimming over the fidleys on to the floor. "I bought one for a sovereign."
"Scrap iron, then," declared Kenneth.
"No; in good running order," continued Morpeth, "twin cylinders, magneto, countershaft, kick starter and all that sort of fake-a-lorum. True, the old 'bus had been in the ditch for a fortnight. Do you remember when the old Tantalus was torpedoed some while back? They got her into shallow water down Cornwall. Well, this motor bike was on board. Bought it from a chap called Farrar, who told me he had bought it from a marine officer for four bob and had refused a fiver for it as the vessel was sinking. Spent best part of seven days' leave cleaning the thing up, and now, by Jove!——"
"You're wanted on deck, sir," exclaimed a sailor excitedly. "We've just sighted two men in the ditch——"
Taking a hasty and copious gulp of tea on the principle that "you never know when you may get another chance," Lieutenant-Commander Morpeth ran up the ladder, Meredith only hanging back sufficiently to clear the heels of the R.N.R. officer's seaboots.
The mystery ship had already slowed down and altered course. Men, grasping coiled bowlines, were grouped on her long narrow bows. Ainslie, standing well for'ard, was conning the ship by movements of his arms. Wakefield, binoculars to his eyes, was keeping the men in distress under observation.
"A pair of Huns!" he exclaimed, as Morpeth and Meredith joined him. "They're clinging to a U-boat's buoy. I can see the number 'U 247' painted on it."
"One of our submarines has been busy, then," remarked Morpeth. "Hope to goodness she doesn't jolly well take it into her head to slap a tinfish into us."
Wakefield shrugged his shoulders. This was another phase of U-boat tactics. When a fellow rigs himself up like a Fritz to bag a Fritz, presumably he must run the risk of being taken for a genuine Fritz by other Fritz-hunters. He glanced at Morpeth inquiringly. The R.N.R. man's face was set and determined.
Above the risks of war another issue dominated. Human life was at stake, not in the heat of battle but in the ceaseless struggle of man with the sea—a fight that has been waged ever since men adventured themselves upon the waters. Friends or foemen made no difference: Morpeth was determined to pluck the two distressed men from the grip of the voracious sea.
The swimmers were Ober-leutnant Hans von Preugfeld and Unter-leutnant Eitel von Loringhoven. More than an hour had elapsed since they had been ruthlessly jettisoned by the mutineers. Their chances of being picked up were small indeed. Had it not been for the fact that one of the U-boat's crew, more humane than the rest, had surreptitiously released a life-buoy from the starboard side of the submarine—he had done this just before the two officers were hurled overboard—von Preugfeld and von Loringhoven would have perished. As it was, the support afforded by the cylindrical hollow metal buoy had kept both afloat, although they were almost exhausted by the numbing cold.
Slowing down until she carried bare steerage way, Q 171's bows passed within three yards of the life-buoy and the two men. A bowline, thrown with admirable judgment and precision, fell over the unter-leutnant's head, but von Loringhoven was too exhausted to slip his arms and shoulders through the looped line. Without hesitation, the bluejacket who had hurled the coil of rope thrust the tail end into the hands of a man standing next to him.
"Hold hard, mate!" he exclaimed, as he took a flying leap over the low stanchion rail.
Deftly the rescuer adjusted the bowline under von Loringhoven's shoulders, and with a stentorian "Heave away roundly!" he swung himself back to the Q-boat's fo'c'sle.
In another fifteen seconds two dripping and water-logged individuals joined the rescuer.
Kapitan von Preugfeld, gasping like a stranded carp, was speechless with exhaustion and astonishment. Up to that moment he had been deceived into believing that the vessel that had effected his rescue was a U-boat. He was still hazy on that point, but there was no shadow of doubt that the crew were British.
"Give the blighters a stiff glass of grog and shove them into hot blankets," ordered Morpeth. "I'll see them later and find out how they came to be in the ditch."
But von Preugfeld, recovering his speech, was anxious to explain matters at once. The thought paramount in his mind was that of revenge. It mattered not by what motive or through whose agency retribution was accomplished as long as the mutineers were accounted for.
"I kapitan am of unterseebooten 247," he announced in his broken English. "My crew haf mutiny make an' throw me into der zee. Der submarine is dere"—he pointed eastwards—"not von hour an' half gone."
"Peculiar bird," thought Morpeth, then—"Good enough, cap'n," he replied. "We'll be on her track. With luck she'll be scrap iron before night."
"No, no," protested von Preugfeld. "Do not to der bottom send. Make capture. I tink not dat she can sink."
"Won't she," interrupted the R.N.R. officer grimly. "You leave that to us."
"He means 'submerge,' I fancy," remarked Wakefield.
"Ach! Dat is so. She submerge cannot make. Take prisoners dose mutineer sailors."
"What's he driving at, Wakefield?" inquired Morpeth. "Hanged if I can cotton on to the yarn."
"He apparently wants to get his own back," suggested Wakefield. "A true type of the egotistical, arrogant Prussian. D'ye notice he never referred to his fellow victim of the mutiny. Perhaps they got what they jolly well deserved."
"No business of mine," quoth the R.N.R. man. "Sinking Fritzes is my job. Take that fellow below, Walters."
He jerked his thumb in the direction of the fore hatchway, whither von Loringhoven had already been escorted; but von Preugfeld had another card to play.
"Englisch officers der are on board der submarine," he declared. "Four officers prisoners—nein, it is three," and he held up three fingers to emphasise the fact.
Except to serve his own ends, von Preugfeld would not have mentioned the fact. It mattered nothing to him whether the prisoners were sent to the bottom inside the hull of the U-boat if she were destroyed by the British craft; but as a lever to influence Morpeth's decision, in order to enable von Preugfeld to take vengeance on the mutineers at some distant date, the Prussian blurted out the disconcerting news.
Almost at the same time he realised that the situation was a complicated one. There was the question of the spy, von Preussen. The R.A.F. officers would, on their release, certainly demand an explanation of their supposed comrade's whereabouts, and then the spy would be revealed in his true character. It would be awkward—decidedly awkward—for von Preussen, but in his vindictiveness against the mutineering crew von Preugfeld swept aside the question. He had little qualms in sacrificing von Preussen to attain his immediate aim.
"What officers are they?" demanded Morpeth. He pictured the plight of master mariners of Mercantile Marine held captive on board the submarine that had sent their vessel to the bottom—hostages who, contrary to all the recognised canons of war, had been compelled to run a grave risk of being slaughtered by their fellow countrymen while in the hold of a modern pirate submarine.
"Von der Air Regiment at Auldhaig," replied von Preugfeld. "It fair capture vos," he hastened to explain.
"We know most of them," exclaimed Meredith. "I wonder who they are?"
Morpeth as inquisitor-in-chief put the question, but von Preugfeld shook his head and professed ignorance on the matter.
With a gesture Morpeth dismissed him. Shivering with cold and trembling with rage, the kapitan of U 247 disappeared below, to enjoy a far greater hospitality than he had ever bestowed upon his prisoners of war.
Meanwhile Q 171, running at thirty knots, was fast overhauling the mutineers. In forty minutes after von Preugfeld's rescue the conning-tower of the fugitive was sighted at a distance of five miles.
Morpeth immediately rang down for fifteen knots. The enormous speed of the Q-boat would be sufficient to cause surprise and suspicion in the minds of the U-boat's crew, and supposing it were another submarine which could dive and succeed in getting away, then the story of a decoy capable of attaining a terrific pace would be known to the German Admiralty. In that case Morpeth's "little stunt" would bid fair to become a "wash-out."
Ten minutes later the White Ensign was hoisted at Q 171's masthead, and a shell, purposely fired wide, threw up a column of water fifty yards from the U-boat's port bow.
"That's done the trick," exclaimed Wakefield, as a white flag was promptly hoisted on the mutineer. "It's 'Kamerad' all the time when they're cornered. By Jove! the old blighter did speak the truth for once. There are fellows in khaki standing aft."
Morpeth merely grunted. He was pondering in his mind—not on the question of how to deal with his prize, but one on which weightier matters depended. It meant an addition of thirty odd people to feed and quarter—a big proposition indeed.