CHAPTER VIII
"In the Ditch"
It was one of the rare occasions when Tom Webb could not carry out the Scout's maxim, "Keep smiling"—at least outwardly. On being slung out of the boat he had been temporarily winded by the edge of the gunwale buffeting his ribs. He had sunk to a considerable depth, and just before he regained the surface he had been compelled to swallow a mouthful—not of honest sea water, but of some vile liquid of which petrol and oil formed component parts. Fortunately the coating of oil on the surface was not thick, otherwise his chance of reappearing would have been very remote.
"Here you are, sir; clap hold of this," exclaimed a deep voice close to his ear, and a large grating was thrust into his grasp.
Rubbing the water from his eyes with his disengaged hand, Webb saw that his benefactor was the coxswain of the cutter. Half a dozen or more men were swimming about, some supporting their less-gifted comrades who were unable to swim.
Owing to the presence of oil the turmoil of broken water had already subsided. Ten yards away the cutter was floating lazily upon the long swell, keel uppermost and with five or six men holding on, or else somewhat foolishly attempting to clamber upon her upturned bilges. Still farther away was the whaler, waterlogged and with only her bow and stern-posts showing above the surface. Quite half a mile off, and still carrying way in spite of having reversed her engines, was the cause of the disaster to the boats.
"Stick it, men," exclaimed Webb encouragingly. "They'll soon pick us up."
At which information, unnecessary since the Portchester Castle's intention was obvious, the men gave a cheer. Most of them had been "in the ditch" before, and in far more hazardous conditions. This immersion in a warm sea and on a calm day was of the nature of an aquatic picnic, while with the prospect of a speedy rescue none of the men thought it worth while to sacrifice his boots.
The Sub found himself counting the heads of the survivors. Thank God! the number tallied with that of the complete boat's crew. In fact, he was not sure but that there seemed to be more.
"Any casualties?" he enquired of the coxswain, who was lazily swimming close to his young officer.
"Bill Evans, sir; stopped a bullet. Right shoulder, sir. They've got him in tow alongside the cutter. Nothing more."
The coxswain did not think it necessary to inform Webb that he himself had a little memento of the brief scrap with the U-boat's crew, in the shape of a wound just above the left knee. In the water it was hardly noticeable.
The whaler's people, too, seemed to be in the best of spirits. They had closed in around the waterlogged craft, each man gripping the partly submerged gunwale and lustily singing one of the latest ditties, just to emphasize the fact that they were very far from being down-hearted. With them were five or six survivors of the U-boat. Enmity had disappeared, the whaler's men treating their companions in misfortune with the utmost good humour.
Presently Webb felt a hand clutch at his shoulder.
"Here, come off it!" exclaimed the coxswain.
"If you do want a leg-up, don't put your dirty paws on our officer."
The Sub turned his head. Behind him was a German seaman, obviously distressed and in difficulties. He had been holding on to an oar, but the buoyancy of the wood was insufficient to keep his head above the surface.
"Can you swim?" asked Webb.
"Nein," spluttered the Hun. "Me vos no swim——"
"Then hang on to this," continued the Sub, pushing the broad end of the grating within reach of the German. The fellow seized it without a word of thanks.
"Most amiable-looking blighter," commented Webb, regarding the heavy, sullen features of the submariner. "Wonder if you were one of the crowd that jeered at the crew of that torpedoed Italian liner the other day? Shouldn't be at all surprised, but I suppose I must not ask awkward questions. Hallo, what's wrong now?"
A yell of rage attracted the young officer's attention. One of the Germans, either rendered temporarily insane by the fate of the U-boat, or else filled to overflowing with the gospel of "Gott strafe England", had made a sudden and furious attack upon one of the whaler's crew, who a minute or so previously had generously made room for the half-drowned Hun.
The latter, having regained his breath, had drawn a knife and had made several ineffectual attempts to sheathe the blade in the British seaman's body.
Jack Tar was quite equal to the occasion, although interrupted in the midst of "spinning a yarn" with his chum. Evading a sweep with the knife he gripped the German's arm, and drawing up his legs threw them over the shoulders of his assailant. Then, literally sitting on the Hun, he held him under water until he had swallowed a quart of petrol-tainted fluid and was reduced to a state of insensibility. This done, he allowed his assailant's head to appear above the surface, and supported him until the arrival of the Portchester Castle's boats.
"Why didn't you 'out' him while you were about it, mate?" enquired the man's "raggie".
"No bloomin' fear," was the reply of the magnanimous bluejacket. Then, anxious to excuse himself, he added: "Drownin's too good for that brute. Well, I was a-tellin' you about that there bloke wot sneaked Bill's plug o' bacca. You see it wur like this——"
And as if the incident of the murderous Hun had never occurred, the sailor resumed his yarn.
Five minutes later the saturated but undaunted crews of the capsized boats were safe and sound on board. Nine members of the U-boat's complement were sent below after having been provided with dry clothing by their good-natured foes. The cutter and the whaler were recovered and hoisted inboard, having sustained very little damage. Then, having made their report and been complimented on their work, Webb and Haynes went below to change their soaked uniforms. The Portchester Castle, this part of her mission successfully accomplished, put about and retraced her course to Gibraltar.
Here the prisoners were to be sent ashore until an opportunity occurred to put them on board a vessel bound for England, there to swell the total of ever-increasing numbers of Hun pirates living in a state of comparative ease in a hostile country, while thousands of Britons, who had fought cleanly for King and Country, were languishing, half-starved and in rags, in the hideous prison-camps of Germany.
"Hallo, there's a fellow who evidently wants to pow-wow with you, Tom," said Osborne, as the two officers stood at the head of the gangway, watching the U-boat's survivors being marched ashore.
The German whom Osborne had indicated had stepped forward and was signing vigorously to Webb. Then, to the Sub's surprise, the man produced a small packet and held it out.
"Tanks!" he exclaimed. "For you—many tanks."
Then it was that Webb recognized the man whose life he had been instrumental in saving. The Hun had some sense of gratitude after all, he reflected, as he took the proffered packet.
But before Webb could examine its contents a loud yell distracted his attention from the Hun's gift. The last of the prisoners to leave the ship was the fellow who had attempted to knife one of the whaler's crew. With a show of bravado and out of sheer cruelty, he had deliberately kicked Laddie in the ribs as he passed towards the gangway.
The Hun had one of the shocks of his life. He had underestimated the spirit of an Old English sheep-dog.
Although the kick was a heavy one, Laddie never uttered a sound. Like an arrow from a bow the dog flew straight at the leg that was wearing the offending boot.
Laddie bit hard—so hard that Osborne afterwards declared that he could hear the dog's teeth grinding upon the aggressor's shin-bone. Yelling frantically with pain and terror the German strove to shake off the animal, but, retaining a vice-like hold, Laddie hung on, and finally threw the fellow on deck. As for his comrades, they ran panic-stricken down the brow and across the Mole in spite of the efforts of the guards to keep them under control. Nor did the British bluejackets attempt to interfere. There was no knowing what the angry animal might or might not do, and since the Hun brought the punishment upon himself there was no great anxiety on the part of the crew to intervene.
"That's enough, I think, Mr. Osborne," said Captain M'Bride quietly.
The Lieutenant had his doubts as to whether his pet would, in his fury, listen to his master's voice.
"Come here, Laddie," he ordered sternly.
The dog obeyed instantly, and releasing his grip trotted over to Osborne's feet. Not possessing the luxury of a tail, Laddie wagged the whole of his hind quarters as much as to say: "Now, who says a dog cannot do his bit for his country?"
Limping painfully the brutal German was assisted down the gangway. He had had his lesson.
"What did that Hun give you?" asked Osborne some minutes later.
"I'd forgotten all about it," said Webb, producing the packet from his pocket. "Laddie's little dust-up put all thought of it out of my head. It is from a fellow to whom I gave a hand when we were 'in the ditch'. He didn't seem particularly grateful then, but I suppose he was a bit done up. Hallo, what's this?"
He held up an Iron Cross.