CHAPTER XXVI
HER LAST BOLT
It was a formidable trap. Already there was less than seven miles between the jaws of these rapidly closing pincers as the two divisions of hostile torpedo-craft steamed towards each other. To make matters more unpleasant a Zeppelin—a comparatively rare bird in the latter stages of the Great War—appeared from the east'ard, possibly from the airsheds at Tondern, and without venturing to make a direct attack was evidently communicating by wireless with the torpedo boats.
"Hoist our Ensign!" ordered Morpeth. "That'll show 'em we aren't going to take it lying down. We'll give them a run for their money."
Up rose the White Ensign bravely in the breeze. Simultaneously came the tell-tale bark of a torpedo. With a quick movement of her helm Q 171 avoided the missile, but even as she did so another torpedo came hissing under the waves. To avoid the new menace by alteration of course was impossible. The Q-boat carried too much way to reverse and gather sternway in time. To Meredith, standing by the after quick-firer, the sight of the approaching torpedo was a nerve-thrilling one. Gripping the rail, he watched its approach as it headed almost under that part of the deck on which he stood. Mechanically he gripped the wire and waited. He could do nothing: not even run a few paces in order to avoid, if possible, the direct effect of the explosion. He felt much as the French aristocrats must have felt when they lay strapped to the bed of the guillotine waiting for the fatal knife to fall....
"How much longer?" he thought. "How much——"
"Stand by with the depth-charges," roared Morpeth, as Q 171 swung round and made straight for the spot where the twin periscopes of a U-boat were disappearing.
The torpedo had been aimed truly, save in one respect. The commander of the U-boat had gauged the draught of the mystery ship by that of his own craft, forgetting that, although above water Q 171 resembled a German submarine, her depth beneath the water-line was only seven feet six inches. The missile had travelled harmlessly under her to finish its run three miles beyond.
Outboard toppled the two metal canisters. At the speed of an express train the reel of wire ran out; then, with a detonation that threatened to shake every rivet in the Q-boat's hull, the depth-charges exploded simultaneously.
There was no time to investigate whether the U-boat had been destroyed, or whether, with buckled plates and gaping seams, she was blowing her tanks in an attempt to reach the surface. In any case, even if she did survive, her crew would be so shaken by the concussion that they would be "down and out" as far as further submarine work was concerned.
The shrill whine of a 6-inch shell drew attention to the fact that the destroyers were getting within range, and that a "registering shot" had been fired to test the accuracy of their range-finder.
Almost immediately after, and before a second flash came from the nearmost torpedo boat, Q 171 liberated her smoke-screen; then, answering rapidly to her helm, spun round and practically retraced her course.
There was a chance of escape—that of making for Danish waters—but Morpeth scorned the idea. As he had remarked, he meant to give Fritz a run for his money. He would go down with flying colours, biting savagely till the last. And his men were with him. Discarding their black oilskin coats, and tightening their belts, they spat upon their hands after the manner of sailor-men and prepared to take their gruelling.
An artificial fog-screen cannot last indefinitely. Sooner or later Q 171 had to emerge from her concealment. When she did she was steering almost due west, or towards the tail of the seven torpedo boats.
Directly the movement was observed, the Huns turned sixteen degrees to port, all firing as they swung round. At the same moment Q 171's quick-firers replied for the first time.
The bark of her own guns eased the tension amongst the crew. Although outnumbered, they realised that there was some satisfaction in being able to reply.
The Q-boat took her punishment grimly—and it was punishment! Several shells of varying calibre hit her in quick succession. The dummy conning-tower had vanished, all but a few bent and twisted steel girders. Acrid-smelling fumes swept down upon Meredith as he assisted the last member of the after quick-firer to load and train the weapon. Through the eddying vapour he could see men feverishly working the other gun. He fancied he could distinguish Wakefield, but he was not sure... And Morpeth: where was he?
Suddenly Meredith felt his legs give way under him. The sensation was akin to that of receiving an unexpected blow behind the knees. Surprised and resentful, he tried to regain his feet. Some one was lying across them. It was Ainslie—or rather all that was left of Ainslie.
For perhaps twenty seconds Meredith lay on the deck striving to recollect where he was and how he came there. A red mist swam before his eyes, then it cleared, and he saw Ainslie's body once more.
There were rents on the deck. The whole fabric of the vessel was throbbing under the continued concussions. Q 171 was turning in a wide circle to starboard, exposing the whole of her broadside to the hostile fire.
With an effort Meredith freed his legs, and by the aid of the shoulder-piece of the now silent after quick-firer regained his feet. As he did so a man, grimy and blood-stained, lurched aft.
"Cap'n's down, sir," he reported. "Steering-gear carried away.... There's the hand-gear, sir."
Heavens! Morpeth down, Ainslie killed, Wakefield nowhere to be seen. The responsibility of fighting Q 171 to a finish had fallen upon the supernumerary, Sub-lieutenant Kenneth Meredith.
Staggering right aft, the Sub, assisted by the bluejacket who had reported to him, contrived to unshackle the useless wires from the heavy tiller. Then in answer to a powerful heave on the metal bar the boat began to swing once more to port.
Standing up, Meredith gave directions by gesture to the emergency helmsman. It was impossible to be understood otherwise, so terrific was the din, and, apart from that, Meredith's throat was so dry that he was unable to utter a sound.
Rapidly the Sub took in the situation. Morpeth's idea was to "cross the tee" of the approaching line of torpedo boats, which had changed their course so that the rearmost boat was now leading the flotilla. The demolition of the steering-gear, and Morpeth being knocked out of action, had temporarily thwarted the manoeuvre, but there was yet time to mend matters. The steady pulsations of the motors showed that below decks the badly battered vessel was still making good. For'ard a solitary gun was barking at wide intervals, keeping up a sullen and determined show of defiance. Otherwise the whole length of deck resembled, as far as the eddying smoke permitted, a gaunt and hideous charnel-house.
"Fritz has got to have it in the neck," thought Meredith. "Here goes!"
Conning the still swiftly moving Q-boat, he made straight for the leading German vessel. The latter held stubbornly on her course, at the same time masking the fire of her consorts astern.
It was a tense moment. Approaching at a speed of about sixty miles an hour, the two vessels, British and German, were heading to mutual destruction. With telescoped bows and interlocked framework, they would assuredly founder together in a common and awe-inspiring dissolution.
But almost at the last moment the nerve of the German commander failed. He ported his helm in a vain attempt to avoid the despairing act of a mad Englishman. He was too late. Meredith held on.
It was true that the kapitan-leutnant of the V 199 saved the bows of his boat from being telescoped, but by giving the vessel starboard helm he had neglected the important fact that the stern would swing to starboard more rapidly than the bows would turn to port.
Almost before he was aware of the fact, the bows of Q 171 bit deeply into the German torpedo boat's quarter. The shock was lighter than the Sub expected: it was the tortional wrench that hurled him sideways against the disabled quick-firer.
Then, swinging outwards under the way carried by her opponent, Q 171 literally levered the partly severed stern away from the rest of the rammed torpedo boat. With a gurgling sound, audible above the hiss of steam from the flooding engine-room, the after-part of the Hun boat sank, leaving two-thirds of the hull floating almost motionless and kept afloat solely by the badly strained bulkheads.
Freed from the interlocking embrace, Q 171 drifted clear, but she was no longer under control. Both her propellers had fouled some of the wreckage, and the bosses were stripped clear of their phosphor-bronze blades.
The gallant mystery ship, with the White Ensign flying from her stumpy mast—how it withstood that tornado of hurtling metal was little short of miraculous—was doomed.
But the end was not yet. The second enemy torpedo boat, unable to bring her guns to bear lest she should hit her disabled consort, was manoeuvring to obtain a favourable position to deliver the coup de grâce. It seemed an easy thing to do, for Q 171 was little better than a floating scrap-heap.
Suddenly, from what appeared to be a tangle of riddled steel-plating and grotesquely twisted girders, a gleaming steel cylinder flashed in the sunlight.
Q 171 had shot her last bolt. One of the torpedo-tubes was still intact, and a grievously wounded man had seized his chance.
Fifteen seconds later the torpedo got home, literally blowing the Hun in twain.
Meredith saw the Q-boat's last blow. Defiantly, almost exultantly, he drew himself to full height, then a blinding flash seemed to leap from beneath his feet, and he toppled unconscious upon the deck.