Clipped Wings

by Percy F. Westerman

"Think we'll have any luck?" asked Cavendish, reverting to the burning topic of the hour—the hoped-for meeting with an as yet mythical pirate.

"Goodness knows," replied Carr. "I trust so. 'Tany rate, whether we're up against a submarine or a commerce destroyer, we'll give 'em a thundering good run for their money."

For the next few days, all hands were busily engaged in rehearsing for the forthcoming show. Every member of the crew took up his cue with zest, confident that should occasion arise they would play their part to the utmost satisfaction of the navy generally, and themselves in particular, and to the complete discomfiture of the enemy—whoever or whatever he might be.

The drills took two distinct forms. The first was that of countering an attack by a surface ship. In this case, with the exception of a few hands leaning idly over the bulwarks and a couple of officers on the bridge, the crew were at action stations and carefully hidden from external observation. Right aft, crouching in a steel shelter made to resemble a skylight, was a seaman holding the uncleated halliards of the ensign staff. It was his duty, on hearing the "action" gong, to strike the Red Ensign and substitute the White. Simultaneously, all gun-screens were to be lowered and every gun that could be trained on the target was to open fire, while below the waterline the L.T.O.'s stood by the torpedo tubes ready to launch the deadly missiles on an invisible objective; the direction of the "run" being governed by controls from the conning-tower.

Should the piratical craft turn out to be a submarine, the procedure was of an entirely different nature. The enemy might approach submerged and torpedo her prey. In that event, the "panic-party" would make a wild rush for the boats. One of the boats would be purposely lowered by one of the falls only, so that it would tumble bows on into the water. The "abandon ship" stunt would then be carried out, the men in the boats rowing desperately from the sinking ship.

"'Ere you—bow an' number three," bellowed the coxswain. "Stop grinnin'. You ain't a bloomin' picnic party. Look as if you was scared stiff. No! Don't for goodness' sake pull together. You ain't pullin' for the Squadron Cup. You're supposed to be goin' for dear life. Pull any'ow, as if Old Nick were in the perishin' boat."

The rest of the decoy ship's crew were at action stations, supposedly on a foundering vessel, although it was to be expected that even if torpedoed the Complex would keep afloat by reason of the "cargo" of cork. There, prone in their places of concealment, unable to see what was going on, they had to wait until the submarine appeared awash and on a suitable bearing for the guns to be brought into action.

If the submarine declined to investigate and the Complex was really sinking, there was nothing for the crew of the latter to do but to abandon ship in earnest and trust that a wireless message to the destroyers perhaps a hundred miles away would bring succour and perhaps retribution, should the lurking enemy be located by aerial observation from co-operating seaplanes.

Then, again, there was the chance of the submarine coming to the surface and shelling the Complex at long range. That was the most trying situation of all. The supposed tramp had to withhold her fire and take her gruelling without replying. The only thing to be done was to stop engines, start a fire on board, and, by flooding the for'ard water-tight compartments, give the impression that she was sinking by the bows. Then arose the question: would the submarine close sufficiently for the decoy ship's guns to bear and fire with fatal consequence to her foe? For the Complex to reveal herself as a formidably armed warship and at the same time to allow the submarine to get away, was the worst thing that could happen. To destroy was the Complex's mission; anything short of that meant failure—glorious failure, perhaps, but none the less futile.

Sub-lieutenant Cavendish's action station was by the two after 12-pounders, his duty being to keep the enemy under observation through a periscope. The latter was cleverly disguised as a galley-funnel. The post was a hazardous one—rather more than the rest. Since the Complex, if shelled by a submarine, had to simulate flight, the after part of the ship would bear the brunt of things. Then it was quite possible that the depth-charges might be exploded by shell-fire and blow the poop and everyone near it to smithereens. Cavendish had to admit, with a shivering sensation in the region of his spine, that Commander Broadstairs' hint of the dangerous nature of the mission for which the Sub had volunteered was by no means an exaggeration.