WHAT HAPPENED TO THE "GLENHOLME"
Adventures with Submarines in the Mediterranean Sea
The merchant seamen whose voyages take him through the war-zone lives a hazardous life nowadays, but he treats it as "all in the day's work." The 'Glenholme' was sunk by a German submarine in the Mediterranean, and her crew underwent quite a lot of adventures before they were finally rescued. This tale was first told in the Wide World Magazine.
I—SUBMARINED OFF COAST OF MALTA
These are chancy times for sailormen, both those who man our fighting ships and the crews of merchant vessels, but they must all take the sea as they find it and do their best while their country is at war. Many of them have faced death cheerfully in the execution of their duty. Some have gone under, while others have endured wounds and privation, as did the men of the British steamer Glenholme.
This staunch ship, steering wide of the land, cleared the southern shores of Malta and stuck her blunt nose into the long smooth swell that rolled up from the eastward. A ten-knot cargo-boat, deep-laden with steel rails for Alexandria, she forged steadily onward through the murky night. From stem to stern her hull lay shrouded in darkness; not a single light gleamed from any of her portholes, and even the lamp in her steering compass was veiled, for those on board knew right well that hostile submarines were operating in various parts of the Mediterranean.
Captain John Groome leaned his elbows on the bridge-rail and gazed into the gloom ahead.
"We're all right so far," he said; "and from what I can hear of things it seems that these beastly submarines are operating quite a bit to the northward of our track. All the same, a sharp look-out must be kept or we may fall foul of some other craft running, like ourselves, without lights. I don't want to bump any of them."
"The ocean is a wide place, sir," cheerfully remarked the chief officer. "We'll keep clear of collision easy enough."
"I hope so," replied the skipper. "And now, Mr. Bolt, I'm going to lie down in the chart-room for a couple of hours, and I want you to call me at daybreak. That's the time when submarines poke up their periscopes for a morning look around."
The mists of dawn hung like grey curtains over the northern horizon when Captain Groome, in answer to a call from the chief officer, again ascended the bridge ladder.
"Anything in sight?" he queried.
"Nothing at all," replied Mr. Bolt. "It's a bit hazy to the northward," he added, "but the skyline is quite clear ahead."
Hardly had the chief officer finished speaking when a shot—apparently coming from nowhere—shrieked overhead between the Glenholme's masts. A moment later the report of a gun came rolling down the wind. Groome hurriedly snatched up his binocular glasses and peered into the haze out abeam.
"Great Scot!" he exclaimed. "A submarine! Hard-a-port, my son. Let her go off to south."
The helmsman ground his wheel over, and not a moment too soon, for a white line, like the trail of a shooting star, streaked athwart the surface of the waters. A torpedo had been discharged at the Glenholme, but as she swerved and swung from her course the deadly missile passed harmlessly ahead.
"Murderous devils!" ejaculated Mr. Bolt. "Attacking an unarmed ship with both gunfire and torpedoes."
"Pass the word to the engineer to give her every pound of steam," shouted Groome.
As the morning haze lifted the submarine came into clear view—a dark, sinister shape. She gave chase while the Glenholme made off at her topmost speed. Engineers and stokers did their best, and steam hissed from her safety-valve as, on a zigzag course, she fled. Meanwhile the pursuing craft hung doggedly in her track. The submarine, however, discharged no more torpedoes; probably the German commander did not wish to deplete his stock of these expensive weapons.
Gradually the pursuer closed with her quarry, until she was not more than a mile distant, and then her twelve-pounder gun began to bark viciously. Having found the range, the Germans fairly pounded the Glenholme with bursting shell, battering her deck-houses and funnel into masses of twisted steel.
Groome and his crew did their duty well. They were game, quite game, to the finish. The captain, alert and watchful, stood beside the helmsman and directed the steering in such a manner as to keep the hostile craft dead astern. Presently a flying splinter of shell gashed his leg below the knee, and blood trickled into his boot as he bound up the wound. Nevertheless, he kept his vessel going at top speed, for he knew that British warships were patrolling the Mediterranean, and while the chase lasted there still remained the chance that a swift destroyer might suddenly loom up on the skyline and rush to the assistance of his stricken and harrassed vessel.
No help came, however, and it was not long ere a shell struck the rudder-head. With steering gear completely wrecked, the steamer became unmanageable, and swung round at right angles to her course. Then, seeing escape was impossible, Captain Groome reluctantly rang his engines astern and signalled to the enemy that he was bringing his vessel to a standstill.
II—"THE PIRATES LOOTED OUR SHIP"
It must not be supposed that the Germans thereupon ceased fire. By no means. An unarmed and unmanageable British steamer wallowing helplessly in the swell presented a fine opportunity for a display of "frightfulness"; therefore, on general principles, they let drive a couple of shots at close range. These shells hulled the Glenholme forward on the waterline, and she commenced to sink slowly by the head.
Having accomplished her work, the submarine came close alongside and stopped, with her gun trained point-blank on the stricken vessel. The German commander, a stout-built man with bristly hair, emerged from his conning-tower. He was evidently very angry.
"Vy didn't you stop before?" he yelled. "I haf used plenty of petrol to catch you."
"I'm sorry about your petrol," suavely replied Groome.
"Vell now, hurry up and get your boats lowered!" shouted the Teuton. "I gif you ten minutes to leave—no more."
The crew of the submarine, armed with rifles, stood on their foredeck and watched the Glenholme's men abandon ship. Some ten minutes later three boats containing all hands—thirty-four all told—had shoved clear of the sinking craft.
"Now," said the submarine commander to Mr. Bolt, who was in charge of Number Three lifeboat, "I vant to make use of your boat for a little time. So crowd your men into the other two boats, and shove Number Three alongside my craft. Hurry up, now, or I gif the order to fire."
There being no help for it, Mr. Bolt and his men had perforce to do as they were told. When the empty boat was pushed alongside the submarine half-a-dozen Germans sprang into her and boarded the Glenholme, which vessel was now deep down by the head, but still sinking slowly.
The Germans looted from their prize whatever took their fancy, while that vessel's crew sat in the other two lifeboats and watched the piratical proceedings with considerable displeasure. One man in particular, a stoker who hailed from Limehouse, became extremely indignant. Like the rest of the Glenholme's men, he had hurried to the boats with little beside the clothes he stood in. His other belongings had been left in the forecastle, and he had to some extent resigned himself to their loss; but when he saw some of his property in the hands of the Huns he could not restrain his anger.
"The dirty thieves!" he yelled. "They've got me brand-new bowler 'at and me gramophone." Then, outspoken and fluent, the Londoner stood upright in the boat and gave the enemy his kind wishes.
"I don't wish yer no harm, blow yer!" said he. "I don't want yer to get sunk, nor even captured by a British cruiser. Oh, no. I only wants yer blighted ole submarine to fall foul of a steamer's bow some dark night and get capsized. Then I hopes she'll float around for a month bottom up, with the whole crowd of yer standin' on yer bloomin' heads and yellin' 'Gott strafe England' until you choke."
Undoubtedly there were several Germans on board the submarine who understood English well enough to gather the gist of the irate stoker's remarks. They looked very ugly as they fingered their rifles and glanced towards their officer for instructions; most probably the Londoner ran a grave risk of paying for his temerity with his life. It happened, however, that at this moment smoke was descried in the distance. The German commander levelled his binocular glasses and took a long look at it. Apparently this column of grey smoke caused him some uneasiness. Full well he knew the rapidity with which, during the hazy weather, a destroyer could appear on the scene and open fire. He was evidently a cautious Teuton, for he gave a short, guttural order, he and his men descended into the submarine, and she dived below the surface, and so out of this story. How and when the piratical career of this particular U-boat came to a sudden end cannot now be chronicled.
III—THEY WATCHED THE VESSEL SINK
Meanwhile the Glenholme's crew sat in their boats and watched their vessel sink. Her bows were by this time below the surface; she was going fast. Her stern rose high in air, and for about a minute the stricken and abandoned craft hung poised in this position—her fore part submerged, her rudder and propeller a hundred feet in air. Then, with a slow, slanting dive, she vanished from sight. Down she sank, like many a good ship before her, to rust and rot on the sandy-tide-swept floor of the Mediterranean.
The smoke which had been sighted previously was no longer visible. Captain Groome and his crew in their three open boats had now to face the chances of a wide and lonely sea. Each boat was well equipped, and stocked with ten days' provisions; nevertheless, the weather indications were not encouraging. Wind and sea were gradually increasing, while a heavy bank of clouds in the north-west foretold a coming storm. The captain shouted a few words of advice and instruction to the officers in charge of the two other boats.
"It's no use trying for Malta against this northerly gale that's coming. We'll just have to 'up stick' and run for Tripoli. You're quite right, Mr. Bolt; the boats may get separated. If the sea becomes very heavy we must lie to our sea-anchors until it moderates, or until we get picked up."
The storm came. Black, rain-laden squalls drove across the restless waters, which a strong and rising wind soon lashed into white-crested ridges and dark green hollows. It was not safe to carry sail and run before the gale; so, tethered by their painters to the canvas drags, or sea-anchors, the boats rode head-on, lifting bravely to the charging seas. Before nightfall they had drifted far apart and were lost to one another's sight in the shrouding rain-squalls.
It must be mentioned that next day two of the boats were picked up by a French steamer and their crews safely landed. This narrative will now deal, therefore, with what befell Captain Groome and the twelve men who were with him.
For the next three days these poor castaways suffered considerably from cold and exposure; moreover, the captain had to endure great pain, his wounded leg being stiff and swollen. However, on the third morning after they had abandoned the sinking Glenholme the wind and sea abated, and the sun rose in a cloudless sky that gave promise of a long spell of fine weather. Captain Groome gave orders to hoist the sail; and, impelled by a westerly breeze, they steered for the northern coast of Africa.
Soon after sunrise land was sighted right ahead—a sandy beach with low and slightly undulating country in the background. Groome ran the boat close inshore and then consulted a torn and sea-stained chart.
"Now, men," said he; "what with the gale and strong currents I figure out that we've been driven a long way east of Tripoli. The breeze is dying away, so we'll just have to get out the oars and pull to the westward."
"How far is it to the nearest port, captain?" inquired one of the sailors.
"Oh, about seventy to eighty miles."
"That's a long pull on short allowance of water," remarked the sailor, with a rueful glance at their water-keg, which by this time was three-parts empty. "Is there any fresh water around these parts, sir?"
The skipper gazed attentively along the shore before making answer. "Well," said he at length, "it's a barren-looking coast, and no mistake, but I see a clump of trees just beyond that point. Perhaps we can find water there, and refill our keg. Anyhow, we'll go and see."
IV—THE CASTAWAYS AND THE ARAB HORSEMEN
They beached their boat in a little curving bay that lay between two rocky points. Here, not more than a couple of hundred yards inland, stood the clump of trees that Groome had noted. They found, to their great satisfaction, that these trees grew around the brink of a cup-shaped hollow, at the bottom of which bubbled a spring of clear fresh water.
The overjoyed castaways drank their fill; then, with tin cups, they baled up the water and refilled their ten-gallon keg. While this job was in progress Captain Groome, accompanied by the bo'sun, clambered up the sides of the waterhole to take a look around before returning to the boat. On reaching level ground, to their astonishing and dismay, they found themselves confronted by a band of about fifty Arab horsemen. These men were Bedouins of the Senussi tribe—swarthy ruffians of the desert, fierce and ruthless, who lived chiefly by murder and pillage.
They were all armed, some with old-fashioned long-barrelled guns, and a few with modern rifles, while each man had long knives stuck around his girdle. These fierce nomads saw plainly that the white men were unarmed and helpless. Nevertheless, their chief—a tall Arab who was mounted on a white horse—pointed at the two castaways and shouted aloud to his followers. Evidently he gave the order to kill, for several of the swarthy miscreants levelled their rifles and fired point-blank. The bo'sun dropped, stone dead, with a bullet in his brain, while Captain Groome, shot through the shoulder, fell to earth and lay there unconscious and apparently lifeless. For more than an hour the unfortunate ship-captain remained senseless and inert. The wonder is that he did not bleed to death; however, he lay so still that, luckily for him, the blood congealed and caked over his wounds. When at length his consciousness returned he found that in the meantime events had been happening with startling rapidity.
It might be supposed that, after shooting Groome and the bo'sun, the Arabs would have murdered the remainder of the castaways out of hand, yet it transpired that they did not do so. Most probably it occurred to these desert nomads that it would be more profitable to carry the white men inland and hold them for ransom, therefore they took them as prisoners. Next, the Bedouins looted the boat that lay drawn up on the beach, taking all her portable equipment, such as provisions, rope, and canvas. Then, apparently quite satisfied with their day's work, they watered their horses and camped, to rest awhile beside the spring.
Half-a-dozen armed Bedouins kept guard on the prisoners, who sat in a dejected group. Things were looking very black indeed for these poor seamen when suddenly—almost by magic it seemed—deliverance came in the form of a patrol steamer flying the British flag.
Steaming quite close inshore, she glided into view from behind an adjacent point. So close was the vessel when she rounded the headland that those on board could hear the shout of delight raised by the surviving castaways.
The lieutenant in charge of the patrol boat—a keen and alert young officer—was not long in grasping the situation. He saw the boat drawn up on the beach, and heard the prisoners shouting for aid. Therefore, when the startled Bedouins hastily mounted and made off, this capable young naval officer knew just what to do—and he did it.
A band of badly-scared Arab horsemen started off inland, using whip and spur in desperate efforts to escape, but at that moment the patrol steamer's machine-gun took a glad hand in the game. The gun rattled briskly, streams of lead whistled shoreward, and the tall Arab chief who rode the white horse pitched headlong from his mount to the earth; then he lay quite still. He was as dead as salted herring; to use colloquial English, he had got "all that was coming to him."
The remaining miscreants rode hard for safety, but the machine-gun did good work, and during the following few minutes at least a dozen desert marauders finished altogether with the joys and sorrows of this world. Those who managed to escape disappeared, together with a number of riderless horses, behind a distant sand-hill.
Captain Groome and his men were promptly taken on board the patrol vessel. The bo'sun, poor fellow, was buried where he lay. The skipper's wounds were dressed by the ship's surgeon, and under kind and skillful treatment he soon began to mend.
The writer saw Groome about six weeks later. He moved stiffly, like a man whose wounds have but recently healed; nevertheless, he looked well, and was certainly very cheerful.
"How do I feel?" said he, in answer to my query. "Oh, my shoulder is still a bit sore, but otherwise I'm feeling first class. Another week or so, and I'll be fit and ready to join another ship."