"They want warmth. Pass the word to the engineer commander to ask if he has room for nine men in the stokehold."
"Me from Danmark sheep," volubly asserted one man as he was being led below.
"All right, my man," replied the lieutenant, "We'll hear your story later. Hullo, Barcroft, you on deck? Make yourself useful, old boy, and find out what happened to these fellows. I must be hopping back to my perch. Thank your lucky stars it isn't your watch."
Refraining from remarking that he had already had a voluntary trick on the sprayswept bridge Billy followed the survivors of the lost vessel into the hot, steam-laden atmosphere of the stokehold. The foreigners who were in possession of their faculties had "stripped to the buff" and were being rubbed down by sympathising British stokers, while heir clothes were being dried in front of the furnaces.
The rescued men seemed extraordinarily anxious to assert that they belonged to a Danish vessel, almost overwhelming Barcroft in their eagerness to emphasise the point. None of them spoke English, and as the flight-sub knew hardly a word of Danish his attempt to gain information seemed hopeless. He tried speaking in German, with no better results, except for a reiterated chorus of "Me from Danmark."
"It's strange that they don't jabber to each other in their own lingo, sir," remarked a leading stoker, who was kneeling over one of the unconscious seamen and methodically pressing his ribs according to the precepts laid down in the Manual of Seamanship for the treatment of persons apparently drowned.
The patient was a powerfully built, hugelimbed young giant, by appearance of far better physique than the others, yet he seemed to be the worst off from the effects of exposure. External examination revealed no signs of an injury, although two of the other men had been badly battered by flying debris from the explosion.
Just then the man stirred, gasped, and endeavoured to free himself from the attentions of the humane leading stoker.
"Then I am still alive?" he asked feebly. "A prisoner on an English ship. 'Well, I am not sorry. I am tired of the war."
"Wot's 'e a-sayin', sir?" inquired the leading stoker.