"Branscombe, my festive buccaneer."
Guy Branscombe, Sub-lieutenant, R.N.V.R., was one of those war-time productions whose existence, as members of the "band of brothers" under the White Ensign, has been amply justified. He had been a candidate for Osborne, but had failed to satisfy the examiners. Now, taking advantage of his undoubted skill as an amateur yachtsman, he was doing good service both in deep-sea and coastal navigation. These two branches are widely distinct. Generally speaking, officers of the "pukka" navy are indifferent navigators in coastal waters. Inside the "five fathom line" they often lack the confidence that the skilled amateur possesses. Thus the Admiralty soon found the need to accept the offers of British yachtsmen to take command of the shoal of "M.-L.'s"—otherwise Coastal Motor-Launches—the war record of which showed that official confidence had not been misplaced.
In the early days of the war the newly-constituted Motor-Boat Reserve was frequently a subject for ridicule. "Harry Tate's Navy", as it was called, figured in cheap comic papers, and was spoken of jestingly by misinformed critics. True, there were incompetents, who managed to obtain temporary commissions on the strength of baneful influence; but these were soon weeded out, and the zealous, hard-working men remained to "carry on". For the first three years of war the M.-L.'s were rarely if ever in the limelight. Not that they wanted to be; they were content to work whole-heartedly as units of the Great Silent Navy, until even official reticence and the muzzle of the Press Censor failed to hide from public notice the stirring deeds of the officers and men of the puny but doughty M.-L.'s.
"I'm taking over M.-L. 4452," explained Branscombe, when the two men had settled down to the contents of a Thermos and biscuits—for the R.N.V.R. man had taken the precaution to fortify himself amply against the discomforts of long railway journeys. "She's a brand-new hooker, just handed over at Dumbarton by the contractors. We're bound south for——" He hesitated. Alec looked at him inquiringly and raised his eyebrows.
"Dover?" asked the R.N. sub.
"Yes—Dover," replied Guy.
"Lucky blighter," rejoined Seton "Wish I had the chance. There's always something doing in the 'Wet Triangle'. Up here with the Grand Fleet it's the usual out-and-in stunt, with no chance of tumbling across anything more than a Fritz or a mine. Absolute boredom, and all because the Huns won't come out. Now at Dover—any stunt on?"
"Can't say, old man," replied Branscombe with perfect truth. As a matter of fact the R.N.V.R. officer was "in the know". Great operations, as to which all concerned were bound to secrecy, were impending; the risk was great, and the chance of honour correspondingly so; and since success depended upon a sphinx-like silence the secret was being well kept. Branscombe even knew of a case in which two life-long chums were shipmates for three weeks, and although each was detailed off for duty in the forthcoming operations neither hinted to the other that it was his luck to be chosen for the stunt.
The conversation turned into other channels, talking "shop" being tabooed as far as possible, and punctually to time the two chums found themselves on Waverley Station platform with ten minutes to wait for the train that was to take them to their destination—Inverkeithing and Rosyth.