It was not the Admiral's intention to carry out target practice. Instead, the whole of the Grand Fleet put to sea from its various bases, ostensibly for the neighbourhood of the Orkneys, but in reality for a far more important objective.
At 1 a.m. on the 31st the authorities raided the isolated hut on the Norfolk coast, captured the German telegraph operator in the act of communicating with Borkum, and hurried him away under close arrest. He had played his part as far as the British interests were concerned, since he had informed the German Admiralty of the supposed rendezvous of Jellicoe's fleet.
"Do you think there's something in the wind, sir?" asked Sefton, as the Calder, in station with the rest of her flotilla, was slipping along at 18 knots.
Crosthwaite smiled enigmatically. He knew as much as captains of ships were supposed to know, which wasn't very much, but more than their subordinates were told.
"Patience!" he replied. "Can't say more at present. You might see how repairs to that 4-inch gun are progressing."
Sefton descended the bridge ladder and made his way aft. Slight defects in the mounting of the stern-chaser quick-firer had appeared almost as soon as the destroyer left the Firth of Forth, and the armourer's crew were hard at work rectifying the damage.
Gripping the stanchion rail surrounding the gun platform, for the Calder was rolling considerably in the "wash" of her preceding consorts, and exposed to a stiff beam wind, the sub watched the operation. He had no need to ask any questions; there was little about the mechanism of a 4-inch and its mountings that he did not know. He could see that the repairs were almost completed, only a few finishing touches requiring to be done.
"Man overboard!"
The sub rushed to the side just in time to see the outstretched arms of a bluejacket emerging from the following wave of the swiftly moving craft. It was indeed fortunate that the man was still alive, not only had he escaped having his back broken on striking the water, but he had missed the rapidly revolving starboard propeller. Clad in a "duffel" suit and wearing sea-boots, his position was precarious in the extreme.
Without hesitation Sefton made a flying leap over the guard-rails. Once clear of the side he drew up his legs and hunched his shoulders, striking the water with tremendous force. Well it was that he had taken this precaution instead of making a dive in the ordinary sense of the word, for, carried onward at the rate of a mile every three minutes, he ran a serious risk of dislocated limbs or a broken back had he not rolled himself into the nearest resemblance to a ball.