Under the White Ensign: A Naval Story of the Great War

by Percy F. Westerman

But Tom Webb had other things at present to occupy his attention, for with an irresistible rush a mass of green sea poured completely over the boat, capsizing her and throwing her crew into the water.

The Sub was one of the few who were thrown clear. Some, trapped underneath the upturned craft, were unable to dive under the gunwales, owing to the buoyancy of their life-saving gear, until they had wrenched off their belts. Two were stunned by their heads coming into violent contact with the woodwork.

Caught by a crested breaker, Webb found himself being urged shorewards at a terrific speed. Presently his feet touched the sand. In vain he started to make his way to land. Gripped by the undertow he was dragged back until the succeeding breaker overtook him, hurling him forwards like a stone from a catapult. Again the wave receded. Prone upon the soft, yielding sand, the Sub endeavoured to obtain a hold by digging his hands into the treacherous shore till the receding mass of water drew him backwards to be again pounded by the next mountain of water. Boats' gear, hurled shorewards by the waves, was thrown all around him. Several times he was struck by heavy objects. Not only was he in danger of being drowned; there was also a likelihood that he might be battered into a state of insensibility by the flotsam.

For how long this state of affairs continued Webb had not the faintest idea. Nor did he know how his companions were faring, except that farther along the shore some saturated figures were staggering up the beach. He was fast losing count of time and place. Torpor was beginning to seize him in its remorseless, oblivion-giving grasp.

Suddenly his hands came in contact with the broken blade of an oar. The instinct of self-preservation was yet strong enough to enable him to take the remote chance that remained. Waiting until the next wave was beginning to run back, the Sub planted the slightly cambered piece of wood deeply in the sand. The broad surface held, despite the terrific backward drag of the undertow.

Directly the suction ceased, Webb staggered to his feet and began to make his way to safety; but before he had gone five yards he was flung headlong by the succeeding breaker, and the blade of the oar was wrenched from his grasp.

Before the backwash gripped him the Sub felt a hand grasp his wrist. He was just conscious of seeing Dacres with a line round his waist standing thigh-deep in the water, and hearing his cheering words of encouragement. Then everything became a blank.

When Sub-lieutenant Webb came to himself he found that he was lying under the lee of the sand-hills. A broad-leaved prickly bush afforded shelter from the sun, the rays of which were beating fiercely down upon the almost barren ground. His head had been roughly bandaged, and was supported by a rolled coat.

He was not alone. A dozen men, all in varying stages of recovery from a state of insensibility, were lying on the ground. At some distance, others were busily engaged in emptying boxes of stores that had been washed ashore and—ominous sight—were filling them with sand. Others were hacking at the prickly scrub and erecting a form of fortification known as a zariba. Apparently an attack by the Senussi was expected.

There was Osborne in coat and shirt, and with a strip of calico wrapped round his head to protect it from the sun, toiling as arduously as the seamen; Dacres and Fane, the latter with his arm still in a sling, were dragging heavy gear up from the shore. A short distance away was Captain M'Bride, inspecting the few rifles which had come ashore in the boats; with him was Dicky Haynes. Most of the remaining officers were safe, but there were some whom Webb would never again meet on this earth.