"Pass the word for the surgeon," ordered the lieutenant-commander, as he rang for "half-speed" and then "stop."
Adroitly manoeuvred, the Pylos ran alongside the cruelly battered Q-boat and made fast. A sub-lieutenant, the surgeon and a dozen hands boarded the disabled boat.
"Not an officer left standing, sir," reported a chief petty officer, whose rank was indicated only by a battered peak cap set at a raking angle on his head and partly counterbalanced by a stained bandage. The rest of his attire consisted of a pair of trousers hanging in shreds below the knees, and the remains of a singlet that failed to conceal a lacerated wound on the man's broad chest. "And only a handful of us—mostly engine-room ratings."
Leaving the doctor and his assistants to deal with their grim and stupendous task, the sub-lieutenant proceeded to investigate the state of the ship. A decision had to be arrived at with the utmost promptitude—whether she should be sunk or steps taken to tow her back across the North Sea.
Her bows were battered and the for'ard compartment flooded. Beyond that she seemed fairly water-tight. Her engine-room was practically intact, although there were several gaping holes just above the water-line.
"I think we can save her yet," decided the Sub—a lad of nineteen, with the mature judgment of one who has seen three years of naval warfare.
He made his way aft, encountering the surgeon.
"A hard case, Pills," he remarked. "How many casualties?"
"Seventeen killed," was the reply. "Nine wounded. The disparity shows that she must have had a gruelling. There are only eight men fit to carry on, and most of them have scratches or are shaken up by the concussion. There are three officers right aft—all badly knocked about."
Lying side by side, close to the disabled after quick-firer, were Morpeth, Wakefield and Meredith. A short distance away was all that was mortal of young Ainslie.