At a quarter to five both fleets altered course several points, the rival lines turning outwards and completely reversing their previous direction. It was at this juncture that the British destroyers were ordered to take advantage of the confusion in which the Huns had been thrown and to launch a torpedo attack upon the battered enemy ships.
"Now for it," thought Crosthwaite, the glint of battle in his eyes. It was his chance--a dash in broad daylight against the quick-firers of the German vessels. Never before in the history of naval warfare had destroyers been ordered to attack battleships save at night. Everything depended upon skill in handling, speed, and the turmoil into which the enemy had been thrown by the terrific gun-fire of the battleships of the Queen Elizabeth class.
In four columns line ahead the destroyer flotillas raced off at top speed. Drawing clear of the cruisers, they turned 8 points to starboard, a course that would bring them in contact with the enemy line. Thick clouds of fire-tinged smoke belched from their funnels--not due to bad stoking but to the deliberate manipulation of the oil-fuel-fed furnaces, since smoke alone offered any concealment during the daylight attack.
With a couple of quartermasters, a signalman, and a messenger to attend to the voice-tubes, Crosthwaite took up his station within the conning-tower. All his mental powers were at work, and yet he remained perfectly cool and collected. Hardly a detail that came under his notice of that onward rush escaped his recollection.
For the first few miles the destroyers kept perfect station. Had they been on peace manoeuvres their relative distances could not have been better maintained. Through the eddying, ash-laden smoke, Crosthwaite strained his bloodshot eyes upon the destroyer next ahead, ready at the first sign to reduce speed or swerve should the little craft be hit or fall out of line. The possibility of the Calder being "done in" never occurred to him, once the order had been given to attack. It was always one of her consorts that might meet with ill-luck, but Crosthwaite's command--no, never.
Shells were beginning to ricochet from the water all around the devoted destroyers; yet, seemingly bearing a charmed life, they held grimly on their way.
More than once the sharp crash of a projectile exploding astern caused the lieutenant-commander to turn his head. Already rents were visible in the Calder's funnels, through which the smoke poured in long trailing wisps. By the two tubes the torpedo-men stood rigidly at attention. Their two deadly weapons had been "launched home" and the tubes trained ten degrees for'ard of the beam. With his hand upon the firing-trigger the torpedo coxswain of each end waited, as impassive as if carved in marble, ready to speed the missile on its way, and apparently indifferent to the fact that a sliver of steel striking the deadly warhead would involve the destroyer and her entire crew in absolute and instantaneous destruction.
Suddenly the leading destroyer ported helm, turning so swiftly and listing so excessively that, for the moment, Crosthwaite thought that she had received a mortal blow. Her alert commander had noticed a suspicious movement amongst the irregular line of battered German war-ships, now almost within effective torpedo range.
Out from behind the screen of battleships tore a German light cruiser and nearly a score of their ocean-going torpedo-boats. Whether it was with the intention of intercepting the British destroyers, or whether about to launch a torpedo attack upon Beatty's battle-cruisers, Crosthwaite knew not. All he did know was that the rival flotillas were closing at an aggregate rate of more than a mile a minute, and that the next few seconds would find the torpedo-craft mixed up in a most unholy scrap.
All attempts at formation were now cast to the winds. Interlining, dodging across each other's bows, the engaging vessels raced madly to and fro, their quick-firers barking as rapidly as the gunners could thrust home the cartridges and clang the breech-blocks. So intricate was the manoeuvring that Crosthwaite saw two German torpedo-boats collide, and, while in that position, they were raked by a dozen shells from the Turbulent.